


The Last of the Real Ones

by theladysarmor



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternating, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Moments, Third person point of view, achilles is kind of a dick, bc im a sucker for it, stays true to canon, with elements of the iliad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-04-26 12:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14402448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladysarmor/pseuds/theladysarmor
Summary: Patroclus met Achilles’ eyes. He was standing across the room, arms crossed over his chest, hair bound in a leather thong at the nap of his neck. A few strands fell in front of his eyes, though it did not look careless, like Patroclus’ hair did most days.Achilles’ eyes scoured over him and Patroclus sat perfectly still, awaiting his verdict, like he was judge and executioner at once.“What?” Achilles finally said, making another face. There was the disappointment, flashing sharply across his cherub features. Patroclus did not know Achilles’ expressions well, but he could pinpoint disappointment on anyone. He’d seen it on too many faces. “He doesn’t seem like anything special to me.” His tone was dismissive, a knife right to the gut...X X X XA missing moments fanfic that explores parts of the story not shown in canon...





	1. Book One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there ao3/SoA community,
> 
> the tl;dr of this story is that i read song of achilles and still haven't recovered, so this was what was born. i'm sad that i missed the Height of the SoA fandom, but i hope that those of you still looking for content enjoy! if not, i've wrote this mostly for myself. i haven't written anything freeform in a while, so it's good practice. 
> 
> also, forgive me for my copious amounts of mythological references--it's actually what i'm going to school for and loved achilles (and the iliad) for much longer than the last few weeks when i picked up SoA. because of that, i will probably also be altering achilles' character juuuust slightly, mostly because i want some conflict in this story. not that i don't love miller's, because i do! just that the achilles of myth is kind of a raging asshole and i want to represent that, while also making him a sympathetic and admirable character. so, if dickish achilles is not your cup of tea, this fic is probably not for you. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy!! please leave a review if you read, so i can know if i'm doing well or not! 
> 
> many thanks.
> 
> ((also, because i'm extra, i made a playlist, found here-- https://open.spotify.com/user/1239213808/playlist/2fejGue3pMwXztGqqDJDJU?si=pCPVz32sSeKvGfHisxs7JQ--feel free to follow it on spotify!))

 

Boys are not supposed to miss their mothers.

Patroclus missed his. The missing was big and round inside of his chest and it only seemed to burn bigger and brighter the longer that it went on. It would help, maybe, if he spoke to someone about it, but boys were not supposed to miss their mothers and the other foster boys already hated him. They teased him about his eyes—how he looked like a frightened fawn. They teased him about his stumbling—like a newborn foal.

Of course, Patroclus was used to teasing. He was used to much worse, as fate would have it. It was almost a blessing here. The boys only jostled, rarely shoved. They did not ask for his things, because he had none. They left him alone besides the taunting jeers they slung like spears across the practice field.

“ _Oi, Patroclus, you’ve missed again_!”

“ _He couldn’t hit the broad side of the stables_!”

They hooted and laughed until tears were rolling down their cheeks. Sometimes, they threw their spears at him when the master’s back was turned. They never hit him. Patroclus was like a fish avoiding the paw of a bear. Slippery. This was a type of training itself, though Patroclus never realized it as he slipped and dodged in the sand, the hot sun baking on his neck and sweat stinging his eyes.

They teased and teased and teased.

And then, one day, it stopped.

It was like the gods had settled the great shawl of evening over the dining hall when Patroclus entered that morning.

Suddenly, conversations ended, cut off raggedly. Everyone could feel the stifling. They were like Patroclus now. Though it was not mourning for their mother that billowed inside of them like a wind catching a sail, but their teases and taunts, dying on their tongue to be reborn and die again, all without a word spoken.

 _It isn’t me, it isn’t me_ , Patroclus tried to tell himself as he slid into his normal seat on the bench.

He hated all of the eyes on him. They were Argus Panoptes— _all seeing_ —and he felt like every movement of his was being analyzed. Before, he had merely existed, like the wind itself, unseen but there. Now, it was as if he had been painted blue, the way they were looking at him. Like he was a cyclops. Like he’d grown a second head.

Patroclus did his best to ignore it, but his heart was in his throat. He went to reach for the goblet of water on the table, knocking into a brass bowl of grain and pomegranate seeds, which clanged through the hall. Several of the boys seated at his table (none of them close enough for him to touch) flinched away from him.

 _It is me_ , Patroclus thought in despair and he felt tears prick at his eyes.

What had he done this time?

It did not take long to find out. No sooner than he had drizzled honey on one of the warm, fresh-baked rolls and bitten into it (this was one of his favorites, though it tasted like ash in his mouth today), Achilles strode into the hall.

Patroclus saw him first. While all eyes were on him, his either stayed on his plate or darted around—attempting to look innocent, while looking anything but.

He saw the warm, fresh expression on Achilles’ face melt off like candle wax at the silence in the hall. It was never this quiet. Nothing more than a few murmured conversations and a cough here or there littered the large room.

“Is this a dining hall or a mausoleum?” he asked, and his voice was not loud—but clear and bright, and it lifted itself towards the vaulted ceiling as if it was attempting to climb to the gods.

The loudest clamor of the morning sounded then, as several of the boys turned in the direction of the voice. Patroclus turned the other way, his shoulders rolling up towards his ears as he ducked his head and went about munching on his roll, mostly for something to do, because his stomach was as hallow and bottomless as Tartarus.

No one spoke.

“Well?” Achilles snapped impatiently, the bemusement that had been there a moment ago had disappeared off his face, replaced by annoyance.

“It’s Patroclus!” someone finally spoke up from a few tables over.

“Patroclus?” Achilles repeated. That was the first time he’d ever said his name. It cut sharply, each syllable pronounced like the slash of a sword.

“Yes!” the boy said, emboldened now, and he pointed across the few tables right at Patroclus.

The heat rose on his cheeks and he shoved another bite of bread into his mouth. He didn’t chew, though. It sat dry and crumbling in his mouth. He wanted to cough, but he couldn’t. He refused. Not with every pair of eyes in the hall on him.

Especially not with the prince’s eyes on him.

He was hanging by a thread in this household. He knew that. Peleus’ meeting with him the other day had told him as much. It had been a warning. That he would not be tolerated if he put a toe out of line. He had no family. He was only worth his weight in gold and how many people he killed before he died on the battlefield.

“Patroclus.” It was Achilles again, saying his name.

He didn’t look up. Honestly, he thought that Achilles was just repeating it for maximum punishment, so it would burn into everyone’s ears. _Patroclus, Patroclus_.

It sounded—doubtful, almost, and he dare not look, for fear of seeing the disappointment replacing the curious twinkle in Achilles’ eye.

No one said anything.

After a few moments, Patroclus realized that this was a command. Not a question. His head snapped up, bits of crumb from his roll falling onto his plate. His mouth was half-open in surprise, but he realized it was still full of food, so he snapped it shut and swallowed roughly, wincing.

Someone snickered.

Someone else shushed them.

Patroclus met Achilles’ eyes. He was standing across the room, arms crossed over his chest, hair bound in a leather thong at the nap of his neck. A few strands fell in front of his eyes, though it did not look careless, like Patroclus’ hair did most days.

Achilles’ eyes scoured over him and Patroclus sat perfectly still, awaiting his verdict, like he was judge and executioner at once.

“What?” Achilles finally said, making another face. There was the disappointment, flashing sharply across his cherub features. Patroclus did not know Achilles’ expressions well, but he could pinpoint disappointment on anyone. He’d seen it on too many faces. “He doesn’t seem like anything special to me.” His tone was dismissive, a knife right to the gut.

The half roll left in Patroclus’ hand crumbled in his grip. The fury was sharp and hot, blown wide open as Achilles’ words sliced through him. _He doesn’t seem like anything special to me_.

Even though that was the end of it, a few of the boys laughing—one of them whooping loud, another whistling—and then the cacophony of sound crashing back over them, the words followed Patroclus out onto the practice field.

There, the rage boiled up inside of him and this time, it was he who threw a spear towards the other boys. It lodged itself in the sand, right at the feet of the boy who’d pointed him out an hour earlier. He yelped and fell back on his ass. Patroclus wanted to cringe, he hadn’t actually meant to strike so close to him, but instead, he sneered.

“Are you insane?” one of the boys screeched at him.

Patroclus just scowled and grabbed another spear, watching with satisfaction as the boys scrambled, like chicken terrorized by a fox.

X X X X

After that day, Patroclus had found drills humiliating.

It had come to him by dinner time, the news that his reason for being here had finally gotten out. He did not know how or why, but it had blown in and taken the boys by storm. Not one of them did not know of it. He was not just worthless, he was cursed.

He knew it, too.

The dark circles around his eyes grew darker by the day and though he ached for sleep, he did not wish for it.

His spear throwing got worse. He was so exhausted that he could hardly see straight. The master clouted him over the back of the head, knocked in the knees with the shaft of spears so that he would stand correctly. He did not spar with the other boys. None of them would get near him. If he touched him, they’d shriek and cause a scene, or murmur a quiet prayer.

Patroclus didn’t know what was worse. Everything hurt. He felt like he was standing inside a hive of bees, their stings embedding in his skin, over and over. If only they could pierce the missing in his chest, for his mother.

She would not think him cursed. Her little Patroclus, she said, when she brushed his hair with a rough brush, his tight curls impossible to tame. She would pinch his cheeks and hold him. Patroclus had never had much affection, but without any at all, he felt the absence fiercely.

The stone rooms that he escaped to gave no comfort. They were could and cruel. But they were better than the heat of the sun and the eyes of distrustful companions. At least they had no eyes. And no opinions on the gods and whether or not they’d curse a little boy who didn’t know any better.

Patroclus loved the mornings, now that he skipped drills.

The first day, he’d curled himself small and cried, dry, rasping sobs, his chest as tight as a knot. He had felt awful and anxious all day, knowing he would be punished. It had made him want to disappear.

After the third day, the anxiety had melted into acceptance.

By the fifth, he was actually enjoying the conditional freedom. His hiding spaces got more elaborate. One day, he climbed the lattice up the side of the building and spent the whole day on the roof. His favorite, though, was a hallway, somewhere in the palace that didn’t lead to anywhere at all. It was a funny corridor. Why would there be one that ended in a smooth stone wall, with no doors at all?

There were doors, Patroclus realized, halfway through the day, when the stone moved and through the wall appeared a servant. She gave Patroclus a startled look—one that he returned. The girl hesitated for a moment, obviously wondering if she should ask him if he needed something. After that brief indecision, she turned and headed down the hallway, carrying the fresh linens in her arms. She had a blue ribbon in her chestnut hair, which looked to expensive to belong to a slave, but what did he know of being a slave?

Naively, Patroclus wished he was a slave. That way, he could scurry like a mouse through the hallways. Everything expected of him would be told to him explicitly. People would expect him to act as if he did not exist.

It would be an easy life.

Patroclus closed his eyes and wished for it.

He started doing that often. Daydreaming. Once, he had been very good at it. He would lay on his back in the fields or on his bed back home and close his eyes. Sometimes, he dreamed he was a ferocious bull. Sometimes, he dreamed that he won decathlons. Sometimes, he dreamed that he was a great warrior, a great king, and that everyone knew his name.

His favorite dreams, though, were the quiet ones. When he was the leaf on an olive tree waving in a breeze, or the stone on the face of a mountain, or a fish, slithering through a river.

This was how Achilles found him, that fateful day, when everything changed. Daydreaming that he was a fish in a river. Not of glory or companionship. Those things found him, instead of the wishes that he cast, but they were better than any dream.

X X X X

Achilles had been summoned to his father’s rooms by a slave who said that he had wanted to speak with him. This made Achilles sour, because he had been out at the stables, with the horses, which was often when he disappeared to when he did not wish to be disturbed. It was no longer a very good hiding spot, for all the slaves knew about it, but he did not change his ways. He liked the horses too much.

They were good companions.

As it were, they were not good enough for his father.

“Achilles, son, come in, come,” his father said warmly, though Achilles knew this was a trick. His father was only ever like this when he wanted something from him.

He edged into the room with his expression stormy.

“Sit by me,” his father said, patting at the pillow near his feet. It was not a request but a command, one which Achilles followed reluctantly, placing himself upon the pillow, still sullen.

His father watched him for several moments before speaking. “Achilles, you know what I have to ask you.”

“My answer is the same.”

A look of annoyance briefly flickered across his father’s face. Achilles did not flinch from it. Instead, his features hardened, chin raised in defiance.

“You have to pick a companion, my son. It is expected of you.”

“Why?”

“It is expected,” his father repeated his voice harsh.

The stony set of his features cracked at once into a childish look of distain. “All those boys are so _boring_ , Father.”

The annoyance slipped away for Peleus as quickly as it came and he put a hand affectionately on his son’s head.

“Oh? Is that so?”

“ _Yes_. I tried to get one to help me replace the figs in the kitchen with balls of horse droppings, but all of them said _no_. They didn’t want to get in trouble.”

“That is wise of them.”

“I did it anyway, by myself.”

Peleus nodded.

“It was funny.”

Peleus nodded again, his expression betraying nothing.

Achilles pushed on. “It would’ve been more fun if someone had did it with me.”

Before Peleus could reply, there was a knock at the door.

Achilles head turned towards the sound, his eyebrows lifting in curiosity. He loved it when unexpected things happened. Often, palace life left him bored. He went to his lessons, alone—listening to philosophy or playing the lyre. He practiced alone, each weapon old and known to his hand. Even the horses were boring, if better conversationalists than the spears and the swords. He slept alone, in his room, while he knew the foster boys stayed up into the night—playing games and gossiping amongst themselves.

So, this development—a new piece of a normally boring and ordinary conversation—delighted him.

“I’ll get it!” he said, jumping up with childish eagerness and racing for the door before Peleus could call after him. Pulling it open, it revealed the master of arms, who oversaw the training of their army, but especially the foster boys.

He was a big man, tall and sturdy, full of scars. One of his eyes wasn’t good anymore, but everyone whispered that he had an extra pair in the back of his head, for he never missed and he always knew what was going on.

“Greetings, young prince,” the master said with a bow of his head.

Achilles pulled the door open further. “Hello, Eugenius!” he greeted, eagerly scurrying back towards his father. He didn’t sit on the pillow again, because that was childish, but stood at his father’s shoulder, looking at the master as he entered the room cautiously.

The man glanced between father and son. Though, his gaze finally settled on Peleus in question.

From this angle, it looked like he was looking at Achilles instead. From this angle, Achilles could pretend to be king.

“It is well,” Peleus said from his chair by the fireplace, “you may enter.”

“Many thanks, King Peleus,” Eugenius said, his steps no longer hesitating as he strode into the room. He seemed like a giant to Achilles, the way his broad shoulders filled up this space with only one high, thin window. It did not frighten him, though, Achilles could take him. He was old and as big as a bolder. Achilles was young and quick as the crack of the master’s whip.

“What has brought you here, Master?” Peleus asked.

The master of arms’ face darkened. “The boy—Patroclus—he has not been coming to morning drills.”

Achilles’ eyes widened slightly. He’d never heard of any of the boys skipping drills, unless they were ill. Last year, a boy had thrown up in the middle of dinner. The bile had splashed against Achilles’ toes and he had found his own stomach churning with ill. It had taken him five days in solitary confinement to get better. And he had bemoaned missing practice, struggling feebly, as he had been dragged away by two slaves.

“Maybe he’s ill,” Achilles suggested then, helpfully. He smiled wide. This was a very good idea.

Peleus nodded, stroking at his beard once. “Yes, that is true.”

The master grew more agitated, like a bear who had been denied his honey. “He is not in the barracks. I had the boys check.”

Achilles was intrigued now, hanging onto every word. “Maybe he ran away.”

“This is possible,” the master nodded at Achilles, who beamed even brighter. “He has not settled in well. He seems useless, if you beg pardon my saying.”

“No solider is useless on the battlefield,” Peleus said at once.

He was often saying things like this. Wise moments of clarity amongst the rambling, long-winded stories that he liked to tell. It was things like this that made Achilles listen and respect his father, more than he probably would have otherwise.

“I can send out a party with hunting dogs for him,” the master said and there was a gleam in his eye. “They can tree him like a marten. He can’t have gotten far, he’s hardly impressive.”

Achilles blinked once and then he remembered. Patroclus. That was the boy that had been watching him as he juggled. He had been watching him differently than everyone else. He could feel the boy’s eyes boring into him. They felt like a burn, while everyone else’s gazes had been warm like the sun, admiring. He had caught that look and tossed him a fig—mostly to see what he’d do. The look on his face had been priceless. Like someone had just gifted him a flower, like a girl.

Everyone whispered about him after that. They said he was a murderer, a demon, cursed. He had brushed most of these rumors off as rumors and ignored the boy, as he ignored most of them. Sometimes, though, he caught him watching him from the other side of the room and it made him cross. Why did this boy not love him as the others did? Didn’t he want glory at Achilles’ side? Wasn’t that why his father had sent him, like all the other boys?

“Don’t send the dogs out yet,” Peleus said, his voice thoughtful. “Ask the slaves to look for him first. The palace has many hiding spots.”

“And punishment,” asked the master, “when he is found?”

The king sighed wearily. “Yes, I suppose punishment will be fitting. Fifty lashes, when he is found. In the courtyard. With the other boys present.”

Achilles blinked once. A lash had never touched his skin, but he had watched them before, when slaves were punished for stealing or being lazy or any number of things. He didn’t like the thought of one of the foster boys—noble all—reduced to the punishment of a slave.

“Thank you, my king,” Eugenius said with a bow before backing out of the room.

“Father,” Achilles said, a glint in his eye as he rounded on his father. The door clicked shut behind him. “May I be excused?”

His father raised an eyebrow, but he raised a liverspotted hand and waved his son away, who galloped out of the room and down the hall, forgetting to close the door in his hurry, the sound of his bare feet slapping against the stone echoing down the halls.

He made it to the servant’s quarters before the master. Pulling up short, he put his shoulders back and strode into the room without knocking. All activity stopped when they caught sight of him. This made him want to smile. He didn’t. Instead, he strode a little farther into the room.

“Pray, tell me, has anyone seen a boy my age this morning?”

There was a long silence.

“Prince Achilles,” a soft voice said, though it carried anyway. It belonged to a girl with chestnut hair. “I think I saw him in the grain rooms. At the east side of the palace.”

Achilles beamed, which made the girl blush, though he did not see—he had already spun on his heel and was gone without a thank you or any acknowledgement or reward besides the gift of his smile.

That was how he found Patroclus, curled up between two bags of grain, doing his best to act like one, as far as he could tell.

X X X X

Five days into their newfound companionship, Achilles called Patroclus’ name and made him jump as he turned to see the golden boy bouncing down the hall towards him.

He watched his expression eclipse itself—bright as the sun and suddenly dark and pinched as he came to a stop in front of Patroclus. “Why do you do that?” he asked with his stubborn bluntness, looking at Patroclus like he’d spit at him.

“Do what?” Patroclus asked, perplexed.

“You flinch when I say your name,” Achilles accused.

“No I don’t,” Patroclus bristled, an embarrassed heat crawled up his cheeks and he was thankful for his dark complexion, so it did not give him away.

“Yes, you do, don’t argue with me, I’m a prince.”

“So am I,” Patroclus bit back at once and then sucked in a breath.

This was a lie. He was no longer a prince. Once, he had been, for the first eleven years of his life. A waste of a prince he’d been, his father liked to remind him. He could not run nor climb nor throw a spear with any accuracy.

Achilles was looking at him steadily, his face hard to read. Patroclus got the feeling that even he couldn’t puzzle out how he felt about that.

Part of him wanted to apologize, for speaking out of turn like that—but the embarrassment kept his jaw locked tight. He refused to apologize. He’d done nothing wrong. It was the truth. He was a prince. An exiled prince, but a prince nonetheless.

“Don’t lie to me then,” Achilles relented after a moment. “I don’t like liars.”

“I know,” Patroclus responded immediately and blinked, surprised at himself.

The surprise was evident on Achilles’ face too, and it morphed quickly into a delighted smile. “You do, don’t you?” He reached out and squeezed Achilles’ shoulder.

Achilles had touched him before. Grasped his hand and helped him up from the floor. Grabbed his arm and tugged him in a certain direction if Patroclus started wandering the wrong way (which he did often, the parts of the palace that Achilles explored were not the same as the ones Patroclus had come to know.) But, this felt different. It was—affectionate and warm. His grip was steady and warm. He didn’t hesitate.

It made Patroclus smile, despite himself, and his chest burned, like there was a sun inside of it.

And he knew then, that he wouldn’t jump anymore, when Achilles called his name.

X X X X

The dreams still came, even though Patroclus thought less and less of the boy during the day. Maybe that was why the dreams came vicious and unrelenting. Every night, they plagued him. He feared sleep in the way most men feared death.

Achilles noticed and watched him with concern. Those eyes of his—bright and alert—followed Patroclus through their lessons, through his training. He would sit on a stool while Achilles practiced, watching him carefully, occasionally throwing something at him and crowing “think fast!” with a delighted laugh. But days when the nightmare hung heavy around his shoulder, this was the time of day that it was hardest to stay awake. The whistle of Achilles’ spear and sword, the shuffle of his feet through the sand, was as calming as a lullaby. The sun would bake down warm as a blanket on him.

Once, he did not notice, but he fell asleep surely, and the next thing he knew, he was sprawled out on the ground, with Achilles leaning over him, his brow etched with concern.

“Are you sick?” he asked at once, removing his hand from Patroclus’ shoulder, when he had shaken him properly awake.

Patroclus groaned and threw an arm over his head, shielding his eyes from the sun. He peaked an eye open when Achilles did not say anything. He was wearing an expression that Patroclus did not know, his brow pinched, that perfect bow of his mouth drawn down. His eyes were watery and wide. He was very close, one of his knees digging into the ground by Patroclus’ ribs, his hand near Patroclus’ head, leaning over him.

“Are you sick?” he repeated, and Patroclus had never heard such urgency in his voice. Achilles always spoke like he had all the time in the world, and Patroclus supposed he did. He was a prince, and charismatic besides. Everyone hung on his words.

“No, I—” Patroclus started to say, moving to sit up, but Achilles’ other hand came up to grab his shoulder, intent on pushing him back. There faces were drawn close together. Patroclus could count the wrinkles inside the furrow of his brow. Or maybe he couldn’t because suddenly it all blurred and he felt like he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

“If I am, I’m just going to get you sick too,” Patroclus pointed out woozily, lifting his own hand to pat Achilles’ shoulder good-naturedly.

“I don’t get sick,” Achilles answered in that blunt way of his, saying things that should be a surprise or a secret like they were neither. Nothing sounded precious on his tongue. Just frank.

Patroclus blinked once. “I’m tired,” he said then, honestly.

Achilles nodded and grasped Patroclus’ hand, helping him to his feet. He followed on his heel all the way back to their bedroom, snapping at a passing servant to bring Patroclus water and an extra blanket.

“Stop,” Patroclus complained, his voice harsh, trying to shoulder Achilles off as the other boy helped lower him to his cot.

Achilles blinked and recoiled like he’d been burned.

“I’m not a baby,” Patroclus said, by way of explanation, but his voice was still stony and cold.

“I know that,” Achilles snapped in reply.                 

“Good.”

“Good.” With that, Achilles turned and stormed from the room.

Patroclus fell immediately into a fitful sleep.

When he awoke, it was with a gasping breath that he tried to stifle into his pillow. It racketed through him, though, bursting from his lips in a sob. He was shaking and covered in sweat, that extra blanket Achilles had called for doing nothing but making him more miserable. There were tears on his cheeks and he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly, Achilles was there. His eyes glinting in the moonlight. He was crouching by the edge of Patroclus’ cot, looking at his face with the same expression he’d had this morning.

As soon as they made eye contact, Patroclus turned his face into the pillow, the shame encouraging him to bury his face. It was quiet for a very long time. Patroclus dare not breathe. The silence lasted so long that Patroclus would have thought that Achilles had gone back to bed, if he could not feel his presence so acutely.

“You’re not sick, are you?” Achilles’ voice sounded puzzled.

Patroclus shook his head, the only sound the rustle of the pillow as he did so.

The pause stretched again, though not as long.

“C’mon, you’ve soiled your sheets. You can sleep in my bed tonight.”

Suddenly, Achilles’ hands were on his back. They’re warm, but not in the same, hot way that Patroclus’ shame coursed through him. They were gentle. They reminded him of his mother. He let out a sob without meaning to. It was loud and split his ear drums, shredding the last remains of his pride, ripping it from him in that one breath.

He felt Achilles’ hands freeze in shock on his shoulder blades, but then, the other boy pressed a little harder and moved his hands to the outside of Patroclus’ ribs and then back in again, rubbing his bare back in calm, firm movements.

The shuddering stopped soon after. Patroclus sniffled. Achilles removed his hands. Patroclus sat up and didn’t look at Achilles, but let the other boy grab his hand and tug him up and over to the bed. He crawled in first, scooting all the way over and lifting the blanket for Patroclus, who wiggled under it, laying on his back, with his hands folded over his chest.

There was silence for a very long time and then, so quiet, that Patroclus almost hoped Achilles didn’t hear, he said: “I think I’m cursed.”

Patroclus turned his head and saw Achilles on his side, looking at him. He had never shared a bed with someone before, but he was certain he should be able to feel the dip of the mattress, the rustle of the sheets.

He didn’t, though, and now he was face to face with Achilles. His eyes glint like coins in the darkness and Patroclus could not read his expression.

“I don’t think so,” Achilles told him.

“You don’t know anything,” Patroclus growled back.

There is another long pause. “My mother wouldn’t let me near you, if you were cursed.”

Patroclus blinked at that. It was good logic. Achilles had never spoken of his mother, but Patroclus knew the story as well as anyone. He let out a breath.

“Will you ask her?” Patroclus asked, his voice small and scared.

Suddenly, Achilles’ hand was there again, on his arm, slipping down to his hand for a moment beneath the sheets, squeezing it. “No,” he told him and Patroclus only just managed to keep in the pathetic warble that threatened to escape. “She does not like when I talk about you.”

“You talk about me?” he asked, the breath unraveling in his chest all at once. He felt—strangely proud of that.

“Sometimes.” Patroclus could hear the smile in his voice better than he could see it in the darkness.

“What do you say?”

“That you are my _therapon_ ,” Achilles said and Patroclus can hear the sheets rustle as he shrugged.

There was another long pause where the warmth of that statement moved through him, from his head, all the way down to his toes, and suddenly, he found that he was grinning.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice giddy. He turned his head again to look at Achilles’ with that smile on his face, he didn’t try to hide it.

“For what?” Achilles is flummoxed, his brow wrinkled.

It didn’t make Patroclus as self-conscious as it probably should. Instead, he reached over and poked him gently in the forehead, right where that strong brow puckered, moving his thumb one way, and then the other.

“Good night,” he said, instead of an explanation.

There is another long pause. Patroclus knew Achilles wanted to say something. It hung in the air. Eventually, though, the other boy sighed.

“Good night, Patroclus.”


	2. Book Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hereeee we are! chapter two! this one is, unbelievably better than the first, if i do say so myself! (though, i have gone and edited the last chapter properly, nothing fundamentally has changed, but it reads much smoother now.) 
> 
> i've gotten my head wrapped around where i want to take this story so much better now. that being said, two things:
> 
> one) i have decided to deviate just slightly from miller's canon and blend more wholly with the original source material (the iliad). in a lot of ways i feel miller does a disservice to patroclus' character (who has more named kills canonically than achilles.) so, really, the only thin that is changing is that i'm making him a more competent warrior (this will be more apparent in the chiron chapters). i'll also be giving him a few more negative traits than miller's version, though really they're not so different. since this is third person, you can just see them much more clearly than patroclus' first person, biased POV. 
> 
> two) just a little explanation of how the chapters are set up, and how they will work moving forwards: i alternate point of view, which you might have caught on in the last chapter. this one makes me a liar, because it is all from patroclus, but that will be how it is sometimes. some will be all achilles or all patroclus, some will be a mix, depending on who better serves as the narrator. also, of course, i will be referencing moments in canon, so that you can stay aware of the timeline, but i will not be rewriting any of them. (at least, i don't plan on it--disclaimer for me changing my mind.) these chapters are designed to weave between the book. 
> 
> anyway, i will stop rambling now! i hope you enjoy. <3 
> 
> ps -- i will attempt to update every saturday/sunday, so be on the look out!

They did not talk about the nightmares again. Sometimes, though, when Patroclus woke with a gasping start from his sleep, like he was coming alive again, he would turn his head and see the glint of Achilles’ eyes in the dark. Sometimes, Achilles would move the blanket back on his bed and Patroclus would crawl beneath them like a rat seeking shelter from a storm.

After three months had passed, the mild chill frost of winter freezing everything but time, the dreams began to fade. Patroclus would go to sleep every night saying to himself: _no one can hurt me here, Achilles won’t let them_.

Soon, he did not even realize that the dreams had stopped. He was almost thirteen now, almost a man grown, and nightmares were for silly little boys. Which Patroclus liked to think he was becoming less and less of each day. He delighted their philosophy teacher with his questions that sent Achilles into fits of rage that often lasted for the rest of the day. Questions about fate and destiny and heroes and prophecies and why the sun came up and the moon went down and why the crops grew in the warmth and why the rivers flowed into the sea.

That was what his favorite question became: _why_?

He asked it when they sat at the feet of Peleus, while he told his lessons disguised as stories.

One day, in the shade of olive trees, hidden from the rest of the household, Patroclus turned those wide, questioning eyes of his on Achilles. The question rested on the tip of his tongue. They had just gotten finished sparring (which was less sparring, and more Patroclus pretending to be enemies and getting thwacked with the shaft of spears if he wasn’t quick enough to lift his shield; which was most of the time) and now, they were lounging about.

They did this a lot—lounging about. It surprised Patroclus, at first. He had followed dutifully on Achilles’ heel and didn’t ask any questions at all and through observation, he had learned that Achilles had complete and total run of the palace. He went where he pleased, when he pleased, and everyone bent to his will without a thought. It fascinated Patroclus and he watched in wide-eyed wonder, especially as those same courtesies were soon performed for him as well.

Now, he relished in it. As the other boys filed out of the dining hall, Patroclus found Achilles and together, they ran off to wherever they pleased.

The olive trees were one of the most frequented places. The stables too—Achilles liked the horses, even though Patroclus found them a bit nerve-wracking. And the ocean, that was the last place, not as well-traveled as the others, but Achilles seemed most at peace there, his face turned to the surf. He always looked regal standing like that, the sun caressing his face like a sculptor on marble.

He looked princely here beneath the trees, too. Patroclus thought that as he looked at Achilles, who was laying back, one leg hanging off the tree branch, bare foot swinging idly. His arm was reaching up, attempting to pick some olives from his lazy position. The sun dappled through the trees and onto his skin, making it look as if he was glowing from the inside, cracked bits of light pouring out. His lithe fingers finally managed to snatch a bushel and he brought it to his lips, picking one of the olives off with a tug of his teeth.

Catching Patroclus’ eyes, he smiled around the fruit. His pink tongue darted out pulling it into his mouth. He smirked at Patroclus as he chewed.

Patroclus found he couldn’t look away, though there was a heat of blush creeping up his cheeks and he knew that he should. He’d been staring too long.

It was going to go to both their heads.

“What?” Achilles finally asked, his voice fluffed up; how Patroclus imagined a peacock might sound as it strutted, tail fanned out.

There was a beat. Just a breath’s length where Patroclus hesitated. These moments were coming less and less as the days wound on without an end in sight. He stopped being afraid of being backhanded for saying the wrong thing. Instead, he relished the words on his lips, the questions, the admiration for Achilles, the stories of his own home. He relished in the way Achilles eyes would focus on him, like they were doing now. Like that first day…

“Patroclus,” he demanded, just like that first day, impatient, propping himself up on his elbow.

“Why?” Patroclus blurted.

Achilles blinked. “Why what?” His tone was clipped.

“Why--me?”

“Why you _what_?” Achilles sat up then, one leg on either side of the tree branch, his hands braced in front of him. He had leaned in close. Patroclus could see the gemstone green of his eyes, even in the dull light.

“Why--you--me--” Patroclus scratched at one of his ears. “Why did you pick me?” he finally mumbled, glancing down and then back up.

“Because I remembered your name,” Achilles said, in that blunt way of his, like it shouldn’t be a surprise. Like what he said hadn’t shifted the ground beneath Patroclus’ feet. (Not that there was technically any ground beneath his feet at the moment, seeing as they were in a tree.)

It shouldn’t have been anything huge. Achilles said it like it wasn’t any kind of deal at all, let alone a life changing one for someone like Patroclus, who didn’t have a name. Not a real one. He had accepted a long time ago that when he died, his name would be swept away by the tides and wind. Eroded from history. This was a fate worse than death in a time of heroes. Where having your name last was the only way to truly live.

For a boy who had no family, and would win no glory, if just one person remembered him, it would be a blessing.

If Achilles remembered him...that’d be everything.

Suddenly, he felt a pleasant tingling in his fingertips. His bare toes curled. He smiled, bashful and big. “Really?” he said, inching forwards on the branch. The bark scraped at his thighs in his eagerness, but he didn’t care. “Why?”

“You ask so many questions,” Achilles complained and shoved his shoulder with a laugh.

Patroclus grabbed his wrist. “Why?” His eyes were round and pleading. He knew it was a pathetic expression, but he was like a starving dog, looking for scraps. _Just one nice thing. Just say one more nice thing about me_ , his gaze implored.

“The way you looked at me.” Achilles let out a breath, tilting his head thoughtfully. He was not often thoughtful. His thoughts moved as fast as his feet. Where Patroclus hesitated, spending his words like the little coin he had, Achilles used his words like swords. They cut, they jabbed, they parried, they overwhelmed sometimes. But, occasionally, he tilted his head just like this and his eyes got this slightly far off look, like he was reaching into the future to find the outcome that he liked best.

“It was different than the way anyone else has ever looked at me.” That curious expression on his face morphed into a smirk and he focused his eyes on Patroclus properly again. “Why?”

“Why what?” Patroclus asked, his head snapping back. Achilles asked him many questions, Patroclus had come to expect it. Occasionally, he would look at Patroclus quizzically and say: _what are you thinking_? Sometimes, he asked him about his old home. But, usually, Patroclus followed in his shadow, doing what he wanted to do, speaking only when spoken to.

“I suppose why isn’t the right question…” Achilles pursed his lips. “How? How did you look at me?”

“Well, how should I know?” Patroclus wrinkled his nose, feeling that burn of embarrassment creeping up his neck again. He was used to that heat, but it had started feeling different around Achilles. It wasn’t--shame. It was--a scrambling eagerness to please, the fear that his answer wouldn’t be enough, whatever it was.

“I don’t know,” Achilles shrugged and moved his hands behind him, so he was leaning back, his head still tilted to the side. Their knees knocked, Achilles’ foot brushed against Patroclus’ calf. He felt his heart jump.

“What did you think of me?”

For a moment, Patroclus thought that this was some kind of test. He knew how vain Achilles was and he knew that Achilles had no idea at all how vain he was. Everyone in this palace doted on him. Called him handsome and god-touched. Told him what a strong fighter he was, that he would be the best, one day. They all believed it too.

When Patroclus first arrived, he’d hated it. It was everything that he’d ever wanted. To be admired. To be adored. Fawned over. Achilles didn’t deserve it. He didn’t even know what he had.

The answer came immediately to Patroclus then, and he spoke without thinking (Achilles had that effect on him): “I didn’t like you.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he froze, like a deer in the meadow--hearing the snap of the twig in his words, his own demise.

Achilles didn’t give him time to apologize. He threw his head back and laughed, the sound delighted. Patroclus looked at him incredulously, his expression vaguely horrified.

“Stop that,” he snapped.

“What?” Achilles replied, still chuckling. He looked at Patroclus then, and his cheeks were rosy, his eyes merry. He looked like a nymph, mischievous and beautiful. “No one has ever done that before.”

“Done what?” Patroclus asked, his own expression guarded.

“Disliked me.”

“Ever?”

Achilles shrugged and ducked his head a little, suddenly looking very young. He always seemed poised, like he was prepared for anything, a combat for every action. Now, he was quiet, those shoulders his only language.

It was a good thing Patroclus knew that language well, because it was his language too.

“In Opus, no one liked me,” Patroclus murmured softly.

“No one?” Achilles head had snapped back up and his expression was suddenly thundered.

It was Patroclus’ turn to shrug. He drew one of his knees up to his chest and leaned against the tree trunk at his back.

“My mother, she did.” He hesitated, just a beat, sneaking a peek at Achilles before looking back at the rich green olive leaves. “She was simple, though. So, she doesn’t count.”

“She is your mother,” Achilles replied to that. “Of course she counted.”

“Mothers don’t count for much,” Patroclus said gloomily, and his dark eyes found Achilles’. The other boy’s lips were parted, like he might argue, but his mouth closed eventually. The unspoken words hung between them:

 _Unless she is a goddess_.

“It is alright, though,” Patroclus continued after a moment, knowing that Achilles would not comfort him. The boy didn’t know how. He’d just said himself, that he’d never had a reason to need comforting. Somehow, his words had helped anyway. They made some of that missing in his chest lessen. “I like it better here, regardless.”

“Good,” Achilles said in satisfaction after the moment slipped away in all its hulking awkwardness. “Do you like me now?”

That made a surprised chuckle jump from Patroclus’ lips. His cheeks burned even hotter, but he wasn’t sure why. He turned to face Achilles fully and before the other boy could do anything, Patroclus got his hands around his shoulders and pushed him out of the tree, so he fell the few feet to the ground, landing on his back with an “oof.” Patroclus was out of the tree the next second, landing lightly for once, leaning over Achilles, who was laying on his back, laughing--only vaguely breathless.

“I’m still deciding,” Patroclus told him truthfully, reaching his hand out to help Achilles up.

X X X X

It was a few months later that Patroclus first witnessed the breadth of Achilles’ stubborn cruelty.

To say it shocked him would not be a complete truth, for Patroclus knew this world he’d been born into was cruel, full of more lions than men, but to see Achilles--whom with he had shared a bed, whom he had sworn fealty to and whom had sworn fealty to him--fall to the level of a lion. It disturbed him.

The day started innocently enough.

The summer of Patroclus’ second year at Pythia was unusually hot. Crops withered in the fields. Even the storms off the sea were brief and sparse, and when they rolled out again, they left the air hot and sticky. It made the heat unrelenting. Patroclus and Achilles, even, sparred less than usual. They spent most of their time, swimming in the sea, which was warm as a bath. Or, they lay in the palace, sometimes splayed out on the cool marble floors. No one told them to get up, though several officials gave them tutting, disapproving looks as they passed by.

It was miserable, and tempers were running high, goaded by the heat. Achilles was especially testy, like a pinned-up bull. He and Patroclus squabbled more often than not. Over stupid things--from philosophical ideals to whose turn it was to strip the beds and lay the sheets out for the servants. Of course, Achilles always won these fights. Patroclus was not bold enough to confront the charismatic prince, whose affection--despite himself--he craved exponentially. He didn’t stand his ground. It was often him who stripped the beds or conceded that his ideas were stupid and didn’t make any sense.

As the summer dragged on, though, Patroclus could feel the itch under his skin. Weeks of fights bottled up inside of him. Maybe, he thought, this is what courage felt like. Not sweet and sharp, but like a thousand bites from fleas, until you simply couldn’t stand it any longer.

On this particular day, things were all right between the boys. They lay on their backs in one of the open meeting rooms, splayed out on the cool marble floor; the only respite from the heat. They could hear the other foster boys drilling under the hot sun. There was the unmistakable clang of spears and swords like a lullaby.

Achilles was stroking idly at a lyre, but even his endless energy was confined to these simple movements. His head was propped up on two pillows against a pillar in the middle of the room which held the roof up. Patroclus’ head was on his thigh, facing the southern wall, which was not a wall at all, but an opening with curtains pulled back, like the world was stage. He watched the boys fighting from the cool safety of the marble floor and was glad for Achilles’ fondness of him.

“Are you thinking about how you’re glad you’re not them?” Achilles asked, his fingers pausing on the strings, looking down at Patroclus and raising his eyebrows, his smile impish.

Patroclus did not like that look in his eye. He got it sometimes, when he was particularly bored. And this stiflingly hot summer was the perfect melting pot for all of Achilles’ least favorite, most boring activities.

“No,” Patroclus said, his voice high and hopeless--knowing he couldn’t lie.

Achilles chuckled, delighted by this. Patroclus knew, even without looking at him. He scrunched up his face and Achilles reached forwards to ruffle his hair. Patroclus grabbed his wrist and gave it a tug, which surprised Achilles. The lyre clattered to the floor as Achilles leaned forwards. Patroclus’ knee came up on instinct, his other leg rotating his body, so he could get his knee against Achilles’ chest.

“Achilles,” he grunted, struggling as Achilles wiggled like a fish, pulling his legs under him, so he could lean against Patroclus. The blond was bulkier than Patroclus who, at thirteen, was bones and not much else. Not like Achilles, whose chest was already broad.

“Achilles.” His voice was a whine now as Achilles laughed at him, hardly breaking a sweat as he pinned Patroclus to the marble floor. His back would be bruised from where his bony shoulder blades scraped. “Gerroff me.”

Neither of them heard the servant boy who padded barefoot into the hall where they wrestled, Patroclus with Achilles’ wrists in both his fists; Achilles leaning over him, a loogie hanging from his mouth as he grinned in glee.

“E-excuse me, masters,” the boy said--who was not much younger than them.

Both their heads whipped to the side, the loogie breaking from Achilles’ lips and making a splat on the floor next to Patroclus’ face.

“What do you want?” Achilles asked dismissively.

The boy was looking at them with wide-eyed wonder. Lots of the younger slaves looked at Achilles like this. He was a prince and beautiful besides. Even the cruel curl of his lip was appealing.

“Well?” Achilles snapped and Patroclus realized both he and the boy had been staring. Achilles was still lying on top of him and it was _hot_ , like truly. Their thighs stuck together slightly, their cotton shifts wet against them.

“I-I brought w-water. I thought--you--you might be thirsty.”

“We’re not,” Achilles decided.

“Speak for yourself,” Patroclus growled and pressed his forearm against Achilles’ chest, dislodging him with a grunt. Achilles pulled his hair playfully as they both rearranged their limbs so that they were sitting. Patroclus shoved him again, back onto the pillow he’d been leaning against before.

“Bring that here, please,” Patroclus instructed, gesturing at the amphora that the boy was holding.

The boy scurried across the floor, handing it to Patroclus with a bow. He smiled a little as he went to lift the vase to his lips, eager for the cool relief.

There was a hand on his wrist, just as the cool golden rim touched his lips. He made a disgruntled sound, looking at Achilles with a frown. That twinkle was in his eye again. It had never really left, even when the boys had been wrestling.

“Where did you fetch this water from?” he asked.

“The well on the southside, your highness.” The boy bowed his head.

“That won’t do, we need water from the east side.”

Patroclus gave Achilles a disapproving look. That well was on the other side of the palace complex. It’d take the boy an hour to get there and back with a full pitcher of water.

“This is alright, Achilles,” Patroclus told him quietly, but his voice had an edge to it. He tried to yank the vase out of his hands.

“Nonsense. The water from the west side is much better. The south tastes like the sea.”

He was right about that, but just barely. Really, Patroclus didn’t mind. He was thirsty.

“Yes, sir,” the servant said, stepping forwards to take the jar again.

Patroclus gave it up helplessly, his brow pulled down in a piteous look for the boy.

“And fill it all the way up!” Achilles called to the small boy’s retreating form.

“What was that about?” Patroclus asked, turning that reluctant expression to Achilles, who shrugged and lay back against the cushions, reclining elegantly. He picked up his lyre again and plucked at the strings.

“It’s funny.”

“It’s cruel.”

Achilles shrugged again.

Patroclus had no retort for indifference.

The next hour passed agonizingly slow. By the time Patroclus heard the slap of the slave’s bare feet against the marble, his throat was like sand and he scrambled up eagerly to greet the boy by the doorway. He looked startled, running into Patroclus so soon.

“O-oh, here,” he said, thrusting the vase towards Patroclus, who took it and gulped at it greedily, finishing half of it off before Achilles could even cross the room towards him.

But, he was there the next second, just behind Patroclus’ shoulder. When Patroclus was finished, he handed the amphora to Achilles, as he usually did. It was habit, more than anything. They passed wine back and forth at dinners, often sharing the same goblet.

The other boy took it and lifted it to his lips, but then, before he drank, he lowered it again. His features were scrunched in confusion, but Patroclus could see that twinkle in his eye.

“Achil--”

“Didn’t I tell you to fill this _all_ the way up?” Achilles asked, his voice delighted, though harsh.

The boy flinched, glanced at Patroclus, then back at Achilles. “I-I--”

“Speak! Why are you disobeying me, you insolent brat?”

“Achilles,” Patroclus ground out, his voice sharper that time. He had seen Achilles talk to the slaves like this before. He never said anything, usually, because sometimes, the slaves _could_ be incompetent. That was just a fact of life. Usually, it was deserved. This, however, was not. Achilles was bored and wanted to taunt. He reminded Patroclus of all the boys who had taunted him in his childhood. It made him feel sick.

“What?” Achilles rolled his eyes in Patroclus’ direction. “I just want my simple instructions followed.”

“Achilles.” Patroclus reached out and grabbed the free handle of the jar.

Achilles’ own grip tightened, and that devilish smirk slashed across his face. He gave a yank. Patroclus stumbled forward, his foot slapping the marble; loud and jarring. But, then, he braced himself, tugging back the other way. Achilles laughed and held fast. Of course, Patroclus was hardly a match for Achilles when he was at full strength, but he made a little headway. Enough that some of the water sloshed out onto the ground at their feet.

Narrowing his eyes at Achilles, he tugged again. At the same moment, Achilles flexed. The jar groaned and then, before Patroclus could correct himself--it cracked. Both the handles broke off and it crashed to the ground.

“That was one of my father’s favorites,” Achilles revealed, as if he was commenting on the weather.

Patroclus looked at him in horror.

He didn’t know what to say. Had nothing, in fact, to say. When he turned around, the servant had vanished. Achilles seemed unconcerned by this, going back to his lyre on the floor. Patroclus reluctantly followed him, though he sat with his elbows hooked around his knees, a few feet from where Achilles lounged.

Another slave came by a little while later, the carnage of the shattered vase still laying on the floor. Patroclus looked at it longingly, but he dare not touch it.

“What happened?” the servant asked. She was older and had a tangle of dark auburn hair. Patroclus liked her, because she sometimes put roses in the water when she washed their sheets. He didn’t know her name.

“A servant broke it,” Achilles told her dismissively, with a pure, sweet note of lyre song.

The woman glanced at Patroclus, who--to his shame--said nothing. With a sigh, she got down onto her knees and scooped up the broken pieces carefully. When she stood, the knees of her gown were wet and clung to her legs. Patroclus looked away.

Her footsteps retreated.

“He’ll be punished,” Patroclus accused without looking at Achilles.

“So would you, if you took the fall,” Achilles reminded him.

“It’s not the same.”

“Is it not?” Another lyre note, this one deeper, darker. It resonated in the hall, hanging there.

Patroclus hated him in that moment with a fury he had rarely felt in the last year or so. That fury was at the truth, as much as it was at Achilles—for he was right. If Patroclus confessed to having broken the vase, with its golden rim, he would be punished. Not in the way the slave would, of course. It was not proper for the prince’s companion to be lashed. But, everyone would know about his slippery fingers. They would duck in cover when he cocked an arrow. They would hand him wine goblets with cheery laughs and claps to the shoulder and jokes about dropping it that would feel like a slap in the face. He’d be seen as clumsy.

A fate worse than lashes for the elite. And something that Patroclus had worked so hard to overcome. He wasn’t sad, irrelevant Patroclus anymore. He was Achilles’ shadow. Wherever the prince went, the boy followed. Everyone knew this. The looks that were thrown his way delighted Patroclus. They were envious and curious.

 _Why him_? They all thought to themselves.

Patroclus relished in the answer (even if it baffled him): _Because he loves me best_.

If this story got out, the respect would fall away. They would tease him. They would jeer and elbow Achilles saying: _why him_? to his face and maybe, just maybe, Achilles would start to listen to them.

No matter how much he hated Achilles at the moment, he loved him too--and he wanted to be right by his side.

The boy was just a slave after all. He’d survive. And with no shame to lose.

X X X X

Later that afternoon, with the sun hot and high, the boy received twenty lashes.

Achilles went.

Patroclus didn’t.  

When Achilles came back, Patroclus resolved not to speak to him unless spoken to first, and even then, with a great reluctance and mincing of words. It would not matter how long it took for Achilles to realize, Patroclus would hold out.

This proved much more difficult than Patroclus thought, for Achilles swung back into their room with two large slabs of ice melting in his fingers and a large smile on his face.

“I stopped by the kitchens!” he announced, holding one out to Patroclus.

This was not talking, so it did not count against his promise if he took it, which he did. He didn’t say thank you, though he did have to catch himself. Achilles didn’t notice, because Achilles never said things like “thank you” and “please.”

The ice was cool to the touch and he put his tongue on it at once, licking up the quickly melting droplets. Achilles draped himself dramatically across his bed, running the ice over his forehead and throat. Patroclus watched the trail of water, the elegant movement of Achilles’ hand.

“It is so _hot_!” Achilles bemoaned.

Patroclus said nothing.

This went on for a few hours. The boys dozing in their beds, Achilles occasionally talking. Patroclus not responding. _He would talk with the wind, if it meant someone was listening to him_ , Patroclus thought bitterly, feeling more annoyed by the second, and less valued as well. Achilles, Patroclus sometimes thought, hadn’t chosen Patroclus because he liked him--or found him interesting--but because he was the easiest to boss around. Maybe, to Achilles, Patroclus was no more than another slave. As soon as it served him, he would be tossed under the chariot for one of Achilles’ pranks.

This bitterness was as hard as an olive pit in his stomach the rest of the evening. They trudged down to the dining hall in the same manner they’d spent the afternoon: Achilles warbling along like a little bird and Patroclus stony and silent.

The other boys noticed.

Some of them exchanged gleeful glances. Others were wearier.

Patroclus didn’t know which he hated more.                                     

As they climbed into their cots that night, Patroclus had resigned himself to the silence; to the fact that there would not be an apology and that he was foolish for attempting to milk one. Achilles was a bull, not a cow, after all.

The resentment was building in his chest, making it impossible to sleep. He felt restless. He flopped onto his back and then, turned on his side, facing away from Achilles. Usually, they slept face to face, Achilles a bit higher up than him and with a few feet between them, but they would stay up, talking most nights, unless they were exhausted. And they fell asleep that way, facing each other.

Tonight, Patroclus rolled over and felt a wall come up between them.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said into the darkness long after Patroclus thought that he had fallen asleep. Patroclus stayed very still—let out a breath, curled his fingers into his blanket, but otherwise made no movement at all.

“I know you’re awake. I know how you breathe.”

Patroclus’ own stubbornness froze him in his body like it was a tomb. He heard Achilles’ sheets rustle and he tensed slightly, like he was afraid Achilles was going to clout him on the head or kick him in the ribs.

The rustling stopped.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said again and this time, Patroclus turned. He didn’t even think about it. Achilles’ voice had taken on an tone that he’d never heard before and it startled him into action. His name had warbled out of Achilles’ mouth, soft and vulnerable.

They stared at each other in the dark. This was both intimate and not, because they could not see into each other’s eyes, not really. Just the glint of them. It was the knowledge of looking at each other, that sat warm and round in Patroclus’ heart. He could easily conjure the color of Achilles’ eyes, though, perhaps not the sheen to them or the expression that was held inside of them.

He was still silent, but this time, it was because he was not sure what to say.

“You don’t--hate me, do you?” Achilles asked, and the edge was back to his voice, like struck flint. It was angry, almost. Impatient.

 _You can’t hate me_ , he imagined Achilles saying, _I forbid it_.

That cured the fondness from Patroclus’ chest--at least for the moment. “And what if I do?” he asked, not recognizing the hardness to his own voice.

Achilles was stunned by it too, Patroclus could tell. He didn’t say anything. Just let out a wet, shuddering breath into the darkness, like the beat of moth wings. The pathetic sound twisted Patroclus’ heart in sympathy and he was furious at himself for wanting to give in so easily, to crawl to Achilles’ side and beg forgiveness, though he was not the one who needed to offer it.

“You can’t hate me,” Achilles declared then, his voice louder, more sure. Which Patroclus found wonderfully ironic, considering that Achilles had already revealed an insecurity--though it took until this haughty declaration for Patroclus to realize what it was.

The revelation was enough to make him sit up in his own bed, turning towards Achilles. He could see him better now that the shadows had shifted in the dark. He knew he had the advantage too, his skin blending in better to Nyx’s embrace. This satisfied him. He lifted his chin.

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Yes, I can.”

Patroclus paused. In a way, this was true. In a way, Patroclus was still just a foster boy. And one without a family or a title. There on Peleus’ good will. He was only afforded the honor that he had because Achilles cared about him--for whatever reason.

“You can’t tell me how to feel,” Patroclus countered after a moment.

That stumped Achilles. Patroclus could feel the frustration weaving between them.

“Well, do you?” he ground out eventually.

“No,” Patroclus sighed, answering the question right away. He shook his head and looked back up at Achilles and suddenly, he found his heart full of pity. “I don’t hate you. But--I-I am pissed at you. What you did today was inexcusable. There was no honor in it.”

“What do you know of honor?”

“That you have it and I don’t. But I want it. And you don’t seem to care about yours,” Patroclus retorted right away, the question filling him with that bitter jealousy.

“And you hate me for it?”

 _Yes_ , Patroclus wanted to spit, but Achilles sounded so--lost. Confused, almost. So, Patroclus held his tongue instead, his eyes burning fire in the dark.

“I didn’t ask for it, you know,” Achilles said after another few seconds.

“You don’t want it?”

“No, I do,” Achilles said, quickly and irrevocably. He rubbed a hand over his face, leaning over and putting his elbows on his knees. “It’s just--”

Patroclus waited.

“I’m sorry,” he huffed eventually, his shoulders concaving, as if the effort of an apology had been physically extraneous.

For whatever reason, he found that fact delightfully endearing. Which annoyed him. He couldn’t help the smile that flashed across his lips, even if he bit it off after a moment. For a moment, he waited longer in his silence, to see if Achilles would say anything else.

There was only the sound of far off waves crashing.

“I don’t--have other friends--” Achilles started, but Patroclus cut him off with a snort that startled even himself. Achilles gave him a sharp look, that pierced, even through the darkness, and he hung his own head in proper bashfulness. “I--the other boys...they just--they just--pant at my feet like--like _dogs_ ,” he huffed in annoyance.

Patroclus could admit this was true enough. In those months before he had become Achilles’ companion, he had spent his time curling his lip up at all the other boys’ sniveling. Who would’ve known he’d be the worst of them?

“And no one--no one ever gets mad at me. I don’t--know how to apologize. Mother says that I shouldn’t have to, because gods never apologize. Even half-gods.” He said this as if he believed it.

Patroclus wondered if he did. He wondered if it was true.

“But I--don’t want you to hate me,” he finished.

“I don’t,” Patroclus reaffirmed immediately, tucking his knees under him so he could crawl a little closer to the other boy

“I know.” Achilles looked down at Patroclus, who could hear the hint of a smile in his voice. “You’re--my best friend.” It said with such childlike sweetness and sincerity that Patroclus’ heart melted, like the ice from earlier, like he hadn’t known this before. He had. Sometimes, he still felt--replaceable. Interchangeable with any other foster boy. But, he knew. Achilles had only said it once before, when he had promised it in his _therapon_ vows before all the gods.

It was better, though—sweeter—here, where only they could hear it.

“You’re mine too,” Patroclus replied, softly, after a moment.

Achilles’ white teeth flashed in the dark. “Will you sleep up here tonight?”

“No, you snore,” Patroclus teased back immediately.

“I do not!” Achilles sucked in an offended gasp and with a laugh, he struck Patroclus with a pillow and then grabbed him around his skinny chest, pulling him up onto the bed. Both boys squirmed and laughed loud enough to wake up servants down the hall.

They lay on the bed panting, side by side.

Achilles’ hand dropped, brushing over the pad of Patroclus’ palm. His fingers lingered there for a few moments, pressing in harder before releasing. It made Patroclus’ entire body tingle pleasantly and it was better than any apology. He felt seen. Wanted.

“You’re a good friend, Patroclus. You will be my--conscious, won’t you? I think that is what my father wants.”

“If that is what you need,” Patroclus promised.

“A heart?”

“You have one yourself,” Patroclus reminded him.

“I know,” Achilles said. It was very quiet again after that.

“Good night, Patroclus.”

“Good night, Achilles.”


	3. Book Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is a bit late! i was busy this week. :) i hope you enjoy
> 
> (the end of the chapter discusses a bit more the content of this one, i don't want to infect your reading of the chapter. i was really going for an ongoing arc/theme to this chapter, i'm curious what you all think of it! so pay attention to what you think the theme is! or don't, if that's not your thing. :] )

The winter came as angry as the summer that year. Perhaps it was the gods bickering the sky. Perhaps Persephone and Hades had quarrelled something awful.

They weren’t unlike Patroclus and Achilles, though Patroclus was loathe to make that comparison, considering the connotations of that relationship. It wasn’t inaccurate. Seeing that the winter brought both boys a bitterness in their bones. The cold kept them inside for much of the morning and most of the evening.

It made them restless.

The one good thing Patroclus could say for it was that he had become a much better wrestler. With the chilly sea winds keeping them inside for the mornings and at dusks, they had practiced more close-quarters combat. Now, Achilles found this kind of fighting rather beneath him. Wrestling was not a warrior’s trade. They fought with sword and spear. But, Patroclus enjoyed it. Maybe it was just because he got better and better with every sparring. He learned Achilles’ weaknesses, of which there were few. He knew how he would grab him, his strong hands fisting against his hip, the way his muscles moved in his back as Patroclus clawed at his strong shoulders, trying to flip him. He liked the way Achilles’ hair tickled his bare stomach as he rushed him, or how they would lie on the floor in a sweaty heap, panting and laughing afterwards.

It was on one of these mornings, the boys laying tangled on the ground, one of Patroclus’ legs thrown over Achilles’ waist and Achilles’ hand on his thigh--that a slave found them and beckoned them to Peleus’ chambers. They washed the sweat off their bodies and dressed quickly, sharing curious looks with each other as they padded towards the King’s rooms.

When they entered, Patroclus immediately realized that this was something serious. All of the heads of the house were there--from the master of coin to the master of arms. They were old men, wise and, to Patroclus, they loomed. Their eyes judged.

“Father, what is this about?” Achilles barged in, saying exactly what was on his mind as always, either not noticing or not caring for the gravity of the situation.

Patroclus skittered in on his heel, keeping his eyes down.

“Achilles! And is that _Skops_ , behind you? I cannot tell if he does not look at me,” Peleus greeted the boys, his voice gentle and amused. It felt out of place among the grave faces.

Patroclus looked up at the words, his ears burning. He knew Peleus meant it as a gentle reprimand--that he should keep his head up, look people in the eye--but it just made him feel like everyone in the room suddenly had their eyes on him.

“Ah, thought so,” Peleus mused to himself.

“What is this about?” Achilles repeated, petulant.

Patroclus wanted to reach out and tug on the back of his tunic. _People are staring_ , he wanted to whisper, but he knew it would be fruitless. Achilles never cared if people stared.

 _Let them_ , he’d say, all haughty with a toss of his blond curls.

“We have family coming to visit from Sparta. Your distant cousins.”

There was a hush.

Patroclus’ eyes widened. _Sparta_? Well, that was far, far away. He wondered what they were making the trip for. It was a dangerous journey, even on the most well-travelled roads. If they were coming, it was for something important.

“Oh,” Achilles said after a moment, “is that all?”

Patroclus wanted to rub at his forehead, but instead he just twisted his fingers around his wrist behind his back. He wanted to ask: _when will they be here_? But he couldn’t get his mouth to move in front of all the important people within the house.

“Yes,” Peleus said, measuredly. “Would you like to know more about them?”

 _Yes_ , Patroclus thought.

“No, I’ll meet them soon enough, won’t I?” Achilles said with a huff.

“Three days time,” Peleus agreed.

Achilles nodded. “Are we dismissed, then?”

Peleus held his son’s gaze for a moment and then looked at Patroclus, standing just behind him. Their eyes locked, and Patroclus knew the curiosity was plain on his own features. He couldn’t read Peleus’ expression, but it looked like he wanted to say something.

(Or, that he wanted Patroclus to say something.)

“Yes,” Peleus told his son reluctantly, who wasted no time grabbing Patroclus’ elbow and dragging him out of the hall.

They did not talk about it the rest of the day, or any of the next. The palace was a flurry of activity. Often, there were visitors from the surrounding areas, but never from so far. There was an excited hush that moved through the air, like the way it felt before a lightning storm. Though the slaves and the foster boys whispered delightedly, Achilles and Patroclus ignored it outright.

Patroclus wasn’t sure why, but unlike everyone else, the idea of meeting new people filled him with dread. He always expected the questions, the whispering-- _why him_? One day, Achilles would hear this, or someone would ask him to his face, and then he would realize that whatever Patroclus had tricked him into thinking he was--he wasn’t.

The anxiety gnawed at him like a hungry dog with a bone, until the night before his stomach was twisted so severely that he could hardly eat anything at all. He managed a feeble few bites before he simply moved his food around on his plate. He assumed that Achilles had not noticed, since during dinner he often engaged in rowdy conversation with the other boys. During those hours, Achilles was not Patroclus’. Some days, this made him feel invisible, but tonight he was glad for it. He did not wish to draw attention to himself.

Though, apparently Achilles had been watching him anyway, because as they lay down to sleep that night, he spoke into the darkness:

“Are you sick?” he asked. He always asked Patroclus this, even when he knew that was not the case. Patroclus was quite sure it was because he simply did not know how to ask if Patroclus was alright. It was oddly charming, that haughty voice of his full of concern, but Patroclus was too nervous to want to admit to it, which meant the question sounded mocking, more than anything else.

“No,” he ground out.

Achilles turned on his side in bed, propping his head in his hand so that he could look down at Patroclus properly. It was silent for a few moments.

“You didn’t eat dinner,” Achilles pressed.

“Who are you, my mother?” Patroclus snapped back.

Achilles scowled, Patroclus did not have to look at him in the half-dark to know, it was evident in his voice when he spoke next. “Excuse me for wondering if you were alright,” Achilles growled, flopping onto his back.

It was silent for a long time.

Patroclus tried to sleep, but the arrival of the guests the next day kept replaying and replaying behind his eyelids. Not to mention, he had not said good night to Achilles. They always said good night. Even when they were angry. They had done it ever since that first night. This time, it was his fault for not saying it, he knew. The guilt was persistent, it felt like there were bugs crawling beneath his blanket.

“Achilles,” he finally whispered into the dark.

Silence.

“Achilles,” he said, a bit louder, the name cracking in his throat.

“Mm,” Achilles hummed. Patroclus could not tell if he’d woken him or not and that reality just dug the guilt deeper.

“What do you think it will be like?”

There was another pause and, then, Patroclus heard Achilles sigh. He finally turned his head to look at the other boy, watched as he rubbed his face--the sleep from his eyes.

“What do I think _what_ will be like?”

He said it so bluntly that Patroclus knew he was not just being facetious. That he truly didn’t know what Patroclus was talking about. He had not worried at all about what it might be like. Patroclus felt like a fool. The only reason he opened his mouth again was because he knew Achilles would soon grow impatient with him, which would only make things worse.

“The envoy t-tomorrow. Your cousins.”

There was a pause and then an amused snort coming from the bed. Patroclus felt his cheeks burn.

“Is _that_ what you’ve been worried about?” Achilles asked, rolling onto his side, propping his head in his hand. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad at you?” questioned Patroclus, perplexed.

“I never know,” Achilles sighed tragically, and then continued without missing a beat. “Do you want to know what I think it will be like? Boring,” Achilles drolled.

Somehow, the flippant way he said it made Patroclus feel much better already. “Really?” he still asked, his voice small.

“Yes, they always are. We’ll have to sit through a greeting ceremony and dinners and breakfasts and we’ll probably have to show my cousins around, the younger ones at least. I don’t know who they are. Not even real cousins. My father’s sister’s husband’s sister’s family or _something_ like that. I honestly have no idea.”

He said it all like he was talking about laying around the palace when it was freezing cold or suffocatingly hot. Like it would be as boring as he originally lamented.

It didn’t sound boring to Patroclus, though. It sounded exhausting. Being in front of others always felt like a performance piece to him. He had to remember the right things to say and make sure he didn’t trip over his feet or knock something over with his clumsiness. He wished that he could just blend into the background, like he used to, but he had come to realize quickly that perhaps the worst thing about being Achilles’ therapon was the expectation of engagement and mystery. People _wanted_ to talk to him.

It was terrible.

“Oh,” Patroclus finally said, though it was more of a sound than an actual comment.

“Oh? Is that all you’re going to say? _Oh_?” Achilles mocked--though, there was a rational part of Patroclus who knew that was not what he was doing. At least, not purposefully.

It still made Patroclus want to melt into his bed, just turn into dust and get blown away by the chilly winter air blowing in off of the ocean in the distance.

“I just thought--” he shrugged a little.

“That it was going to be exciting?” Achilles flopped back onto his bed. “Unfortunately not.”

There was another pause and then, suddenly, Achilles’ head popped over the side of the bed, his long hair falling around his head in a tangled mane. He was grinning mischievously. Patroclus didn’t need the light to see the twinkle in his eye.

“We could make it exciting.”

“Achilles, no.”

“Why not?” he pressed, not at all perturbed by the tone of Patroclus’ voice.

“Because they are important guests, all the way from Sparta”

“They’re not even royalty.”

“That doesn’t matter. Your father has a good reputation in Sparta We shouldn’t tarnish it.”

Achilles scoffed. “It’d be a harmless prank.”

“Would it?” Patroclus was skeptical.

“Yes,” Achilles responded at once.

“Fine,” Patroclus sighed, not one to ever say no to Achilles. In his defense, it was a very hard thing to do. Achilles flipped the blanket on his bed up, and Patroclus couldn’t ignore that either. The floor between their beds was cold and he scurried quickly across the expanse to dive under the covers where Achilles had already made warm. He snuggled down almost immediately letting out a sigh. Then, he pressed his toes against Achilles’ calf to make him bark in surprise.

“Ah! Shit, you are cold,” Achilles exclaimed, but his voice was just as warm as his body was and he didn’t move away. Instead he placed his hand around Patroclus, over the covers, tucking the wooly blanket in behind him, so that none of the cold air could get in. They were both on their sides now, looking at each other, almost nose to nose.

“So, to begin--”

X X X X

The group came with all the pomp and circumstance that Achilles had described. They arrived by the road, which meant that the entire household (minus the very clear absence of Thetis) gathered by the east gate, wearing their best clothing in order to greet them. Patroclus stood by Achilles’ side, both of them in purple robes--Achilles’ a deeper, richer violet, while Patroclus’ was a more pale lavender, but still unmistakably rich and fine.

It made him itchy. He was not used to such finery. His skin was dry, too, in the cold biting wind of the winter. He wanted to complain: _why couldn’t they have come in the summer_? to someone, but even Achilles was watching with intent curiosity as the carriages stopped. There were at least three. Out of the first came an old man, about Peleus’ age, if Patroclus had to guess.

Following him was a woman about his age.

Out of the second carriage came two boys, one older, with the look of a man about him and the shadow of a beard. Next to him was a boy who was nearly his spitting image, though younger, closer to Achilles and Patroclus’ age.

Lastly, came a girl, her head covered in a modest veil. She was very pretty, by all accounts. Her hair was the soft yellow of bright sunlight and there was a delightful color to her cheeks. Around her eyes was dark kohl in the latest city fashion, Patroclus assumed, though to him, it made her look a bit like a raccoon (Achilles would echo this sentiment later that same day). She was followed by a few handmaidens. They all looked towards Achilles as soon as they had stepped out of the carriage. One of the handmaidens pointed, another leaned in to whisper, they all giggled.

Patroclus’ chest felt hot. He snuck a glance at Achilles, who was not watching the girls, but staring at the older boy with a perplexed, yet serious expression on his face, as if he was getting ready to issue a challenge. This made Patroclus feel a little better, though he did not know why--there were many girls that tittered about Achilles. Even Patroclus could recognize how handsome he was. Especially now, with his hair washed and shining beneath the winter’s sun. The deep purple of his robes made his eyes impossibly greener, like two pastures.

Still, he was glad for it, especially as Achilles leaned in to him as they begin to file into the throne room in the front of the palace.

“Did you see that man?” he whispered, his voice uncharacteristically awestruck, Patroclus only recognized it since it was an inflection he often adopted himself. “My father says he’s a soldier. He grew up in _Sparta_ , imagine that! A real Spartan warrior!”

Suddenly, that digging feeling in his stomach was back.

He did not have time to answer, not that he knew what he would say, for the next moment, they were ushered through the palace doors. Achilles took his seat on the dias at his father’s side and Patroclus took up his position to the side of Achilles’ chair, tucked half behind it.

The late breakfast was an agonizing affair for Patroclus, who said little. The girls kept looking at Achilles and giggling, and Achilles kept ignoring them for the Spartan warrior, whom, apparently, Patroclus was shooting so many death glares at that even Peleus had leaned over to ask him at one point if everything was fine. Which meant that Patroclus had spent the rest of breakfast with his head practically shoved into his plate.

Afterwards, they were charged, as Achilles had predicted with showing the girl and her handmaidens around the palace. Achilles did this with all the charm in his thirteen year old body, gesturing expansively at this and that, speaking proudly of the history of his family’s palace. Patroclus trotted along, attempting not to be flustered by the giggling girls. A few whose eyes followed him around. He could feel them on the back of his neck, and he could practically hear their question:

 _Why_? _Why him_?

The tour passed uneventfully, until the girl--Achilles’ cousin, or what have you--had complained of being cold and tired, and retired to her room. Which was perfectly part of their plan. As soon as she said it, Achilles had nodded seriously and shooed them off. Once they were around the corner, he whirled on Patroclus practically shining with his excitement.

“I told you they would get bored,” he boasted.

“I never doubted you,” Patroclus told him dryly, batting his eyelashes in Achilles’ direction.

That made Achilles laugh, which made Patroclus’ chest warm. He bet that Spartan warrior wouldn’t have been able to do that. Neither had the girls who trotted after the two of them, drooling all over Achilles, every time he had his back turned.

“I will race you to the kitchens,” Achilles burst out then, still laughing and he took off down the hallway, his bare feet slapping the marble.

“Achilles! Wait!” Patroclus said with a laugh and took off after him.

X X X X

The prank was imminent.

The longer that they had to sit and wait for it to be set into motion, the more Patroclus had a very bad feeling that twisted inside of his gut like snakes.

Almost the entire household was sitting in the dining hall for dinner.  The food had not been served yet, which was a blessing from the gods, because Patroclus did not think he’d be able to eat, which would definitely be suspicious. As it was, he was knocking his utensils against his brass plate, making ring out through the hall, which was filled with nothing else but some pleasant murmurings of conversation.

Patroclus could not tear his eyes away from the doorway.

Achilles’ hand fell on top of Patroclus’, effectively stopping his nervous tapping. He squeezed his hand and looked at him with an easy smile, though there was a glee in his eyes. Of course, he did not say anything, because his father was just on his other side.

There were footsteps on the other side of the hallway. Patroclus could hear it because they were sitting nearest the doorway.

This was a bad idea. His heart jumped into his throat. Achilles squeezed his hand harder.

The girl and her gaggle of servants stepped through the doorway.

Just as they crossed the threshold, Patroclus felt himself jerk to the side, and, he watched--in horror instead of glee as the bucket he and Achilles had positioned above the door frame tumbled forwards, spilling freezing water down over top the girl’s head.

She shrieked so loudly, Patroclus felt it in his scalp.

The hall faded into silence as the shrieks of the handmaidens, who had also been splashed with the water, tapered off.

Patroclus thought he was going to explode.

“She looks like a wet raccoon!” Achilles whispered gleefully to Patroclus, who was looking at the girl in wide-eyed panic. Her kohl was smeared all down her face and she looked as if she was about to burst into tears.

The Spartan warrior was at her side in an instant, touching her cheek tenderly, smearing some of the kohl on his thumb, before her turned to look at the bucket. He reached up and put his finger on the near invisible string that Achilles had asked Patroclus to procure from the weavers. It had not been hard, he had simply asked for it and the old women had chuckled and pinched his cheeks with their calloused fingers.

He followed it towards them. His big feet clumping along the floor. Everyone watched. No one spoke. It was like they were watching a duel being fought.

The Spartan came to a stop right beside them, giving a little jerk on the string. Achilles kept his grip on it. The sound of the string snapping was faint, but to Patroclus it sounded like a branch breaking in a storm.

“You did this, _Prince_ ,” snarled the Spartan.

Peleus’ head turned, eyes narrowing at his son. “Did you do this, Prince Achilles? Speak true.”

Achilles turned his head towards his father. The smile he was wearing faltered only slightly at the look of controlled fury on Peleus’ face.

“Yes,” he told his father, defiantly.

And, then, without warning, the old man’s hand came out and slapped him harshly along the side of his head. The sound echoed through the room. It made Patroclus jump, and he could see tears spring into the prince’s eyes.

“Apologize,” he demanded.

Achilles’ lip trembled but he turned to where the girl had been standing, but all that was left was the puddle on the floor. It was almost as if she had melted. Achilles cut his eyes to the Spartan. His cheeks were red as apples.

“Apologies,” he said.

The Spartan stared for a moment and then nodded and turned away.

“To bed,” Peleus snapped at him, and then, suddenly, his gaze swept to Patroclus. “Did you know of this?”

Patroclus could only nod, his neck stiff, waiting for the slap that would befall him as well.

“Bed for you too,” Peleus told him and his voice was--disappointed. He spoke in a sigh.

Patroclus scrambled up at once.

Achilles stayed seated, glaring hotly at his father.

“Achilles,” Patroclus said, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Achilles brushed it off.

“Achilles,” Patroclus growled, a little louder, and this time, he hooked his hand in Achilles’ bicep and tugged. He was mad and embarrassed and felt like he was going to cry. He wanted everyone’s eyes off of him.

Eventually, Achilles relented and stood, pushing past Patroclus, he stormed off. Patroclus looked at Peleus once more, bowing a little, before he scurried after Achilles.

They walked in silence for a few strides, just long enough to be out of earshot of the rest of the household, the conversation only picking up after Peleus’ voice echoed through the palace, cheering everyone on towards dinner.

“I cannot _believe_ ,” Achilles growled, his voice full of thunder as they headed towards their room.

Patroclus was silent.

“It was just a harmless prank. I’ve done it to plenty of people before. And to--to hit me, in front of everyone! Like I was a servant.”

“You are a servant to him,” Patroclus mumbled.

Achilles stopped and whirled on him, the expression on his face so full of fury that Patroclus flinched and took a step back. “What did you say?”

“I-I just mean--o-of your family name. You--you serve it...you are it’s legacy. It’s re-reputation.”

Achilles blinked once.

“My--my father used to--to tell me that. All the time.”

Achilles’ face twisted again and he looked away, jaw ticking. His profile was lit by the moon pouring in through the pillars that lined the open-aired hallway. It made him look like he was glowing from the inside out. Patroclus shivered from the chill.

“You should have stopped me,” Achilles accused after a moment, sounding bratty and petulant.

“I-I tried,” Patroclus said, taking a step forwards.

“Not hard enough.”

Patroclus swallowed thickly and looked down, his cheeks burning.

“You’re my reputation, too.”

“I-I know,” Patroclus said, his stomach twisting. “I’m sorry.”

Achilles looked at him then, his eyes searching Patroclus’ face, like he was looking for something. Eventually, he nodded, reaching out to grab his elbow and tugged him along towards their room.

X X X X

Within two moons, the incident was all but forgotten. At least, no one in the palace spoke of it again. Which was all the better if you asked Achilles. For the first month, it had been awful. Even though no one said anything where he was near enough to hear, he knew that the story had spread like wildfire through the household. They all knew what had happened. That Achilles’ own father had struck him. In front of everyone.

The shame had burned deep in his gut and he’d been furious. He had felt like a mouse. Like a rat.

It was an awful feeling, being disrespected in such a way. Achilles vowed never to let his honor be tarnished again like that. He would not be reprimanded or made a fool of. If anyone tried, even his father, they would pay dearly.

With the fading of the incident, so too did the winter fade.

Soon it was warm enough again that Patroclus and he spent their mornings with spears and swords or wrestling naked in the dirt. The physical activity put a new flame inside of Achilles. Each time Patroclus even came close to besting him, Achilles felt that fire inside of him--felt the slap of his father’s palm against his head--and it burst forth from him.

His temper felt like a wild thing inside of him, eating up everything in its path until it was the sole fire burning within him. Like it was a rabid wolf. It wanted to consume him whole. He knew it was bothering Patroclus, who had been quieter than usual, ever since the incident. He ate dinner quietly, he fought Achilles, quietly. He did not laugh as much.

It made Achilles nervous, and he spent a good deal of his time attempting to make Patroclus laugh. With pranks that he pulled on the servants, just little things, like sending them on fool’s errands, or having them bring Patroclus flowers that were said to be from a secret admirer. (Though, he only did this once, because Patroclus had been so flustered and flabbergasted, it had annoyed him. _Why should you be so surprised_? Achilles had snapped at him. It had just made Patroclus duck his head.)

Today, he felt especially irritated. The itch under his skin was near impossible to ignore. Even wrestling Patroclus to the ground had did little to assuage it. And he spent the rest of the day trying to scratch the itch.

It came to a head with the sun high in the sky, hovering like a white orb among the blue. They were outside, lounging, and a servant was scurrying towards them with water. Except, Achilles did not want water. He wanted _wine_.

“Sirs, I have brought water to replenish you,” the servant said, kneeling down so that they could reach for the vase.

Patroclus did so. He always did. Even if Achilles knew he was not thirsty, because another slave had just brought water for them. He never understood why he didn’t just say no. It wasn’t that hard.

“No,” Achilles said, sitting up next to Patroclus, whose head had been on his stomach not a moment before.

“Achilles,” Patroclus said and he sounded exhausted.

“Would you bring us wine?” Achilles pressed on, ignoring Patroclus. He knew that the boy liked wine just as much as him. This was not such a terrible thing to ask for. It wasn’t like he was making the slave run a fool’s errand to fetch different water. He hadn’t done that since the last, disastrous time. See? He could learn.

“Achilles, it is midday.”

“Yes, and I would like some wine.”

“Your father doesn’t want you drinking before dinner,” Patroclus argued and Achilles turned to him with his eyebrows raised.

“Since when do you care?”

“I’ve always cared.”

“This is the first I’m hearing of it.” Achilles scowled at him. That annoyance was flaring up inside of him again. Usually, Patroclus backed down by now. He curled his lip in a little snarl.

“Well,” Patroclus growled right back, “perhaps this is just the first time you are listening.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Like you don’t know.”

Achilles felt himself growing angrier, his cheeks pink now. The confusion streaked through him, just making his mood blacker. He didn’t know what Patroclus was talking about. As far as he was concerned, there was no one he listened to more than Patroclus. He listened when the boy talked about his home before, his mother and his father, the boy he had killed. He listened to every ancedote and he cared about them all.

“I listen,” he said, those brows of his furrowing with earnest.

Patroclus snorted and shook his head. “Don’t order wine, then.”

Achilles stiffened. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Fine, I’m not _telling_ you, I’m advising you. Or would you like your father to find out again and clout you in front of the entire household? It wouldn’t be too far off from what you deserve.”

Achilles stared.

The slave, who had been hovering awkwardly, unsure of what to do, chose that moment to shift and draw Achilles’ gaze.

“Get out of here,” he snapped.

Nodding and bowing slightly, the slave scurried away. So quickly that he left the vase, still in Patroclus’ hands, behind.

Patroclus raised it too his lips and took a sip.

“What was that?” Achilles questioned.

“What was what?” Patroclus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and held the jug out towards Achilles.

He didn’t move to take it. “You just--you--”

“Told you not to do something?”

“Yes,” Achilles grit out.

“So that you wouldn’t get into trouble?”

Achilles narrowed his eyes.

“It is almost like I care about your reputation more than you.”

“I don’t like your tone.”

“Well, I don’t like the way you tell me that I should stop you from doing ill-advised shit, but when I attempt to stick up to you and say no, you treat me like a villain. Like I’m not on _your_ side.”

“You embarrassed me in front of that servant!” Achilles said, but even he knew the argument was weak. He was staring at Patroclus like he was seeing him in a new light. For the very first time, Patroclus looked grown. He looked strong and fierce, staring at Achilles the way he was. So often, he stirred this urge inside of Achilles, to protect.

Now, it felt different. That stirring in his heart traveled down to his gut. No one talked to him like Patroclus was speaking to him.

“Well, you would’ve been far more embarrassed if your father had caught you drunk in the middle of the afternoon.”

Achilles scowled and glanced away, that jaw of his rippling again. The silence stretched, Achilles angrier with every moment. He did not know what to say, because he knew that Patroclus was right and that--annoyed him.

He heard Patroclus shift and turned his head to look at him. The other boy’s face was drawn with worry. It was not a hard emotion to recognize. Patroclus was always worried about something. The urge to reach up and smooth the ripples of his forehead overwhelmed him for a moment. He was still annoyed, though, so instead, he glared.

“I’m sorry,” Patroclus said, his voice soft.

Achilles felt the fury unravel so quickly in his chest, it made him breathless. The urge rose up in him again, and this time, he didn’t ignore. His hand reached over and, with his thumb, he pressed against the wrinkles there between Patroclus’ eyes.

“You’re going to look like an old man if you keep doing that,” Achilles told him, his own voice soft. He didn’t understand it, the feelings inside him that changed as quickly as the wind. He just knew it was more important to him that Patroclus wasn’t worried. That--was more important than almost anything. There was no one whose admiration he wanted more.

Patroclus reached up and grabbed his wrist, pressing his thumb against the pulse point. “Well, stop aging me with your insolence. I don’t want you making a fool of yourself, you idiot,” Patroclus told him, chuckling a little. The chuckle tapered off and they stared at each other for a moment.

Achilles felt something stir in his gut again and he leaned forwards a little, his lips parting.

“Are we fine?” Patroclus asked suddenly, making Achilles blink and draw back.

His hand slipped from Patroclus’ face. “Yes, of course.”

“You’re not mad?”

“No, Patroclus.”

Patroclus let out a little breath and nodded. “Good. I don’t like it when we fight.”

“When have we fought?” Achilles asked, putting a hand on his chest and adopting a confused expression. This made Patroclus laugh, which made Achilles smile. He was the only one who could make Patroclus laugh like that.

X X X X

A few more months passed and spring melted into summer, though it was not as hot as the summer before. There were still days when the sun beat down upon the backs of their necks so intensely that later in the evening, Achilles would groan on his bed, feeling the sun’s heat still on his neck. Patroclus found this particularly amusing, but always helped rub aloe vera into his pink skin.

They spent many afternoons in the ocean. The waves cooled their aching joints and the water always felt nice. They surfed waves on their stomachs and they splashed the water at each other. Often, they raced from one side of the beach to the other in the water, or saw how far they could swim out before they had to turn back.

Achilles loved these days.

He loved the sea. He loved to swim. His mother told him this was because he was of the sea.

He loved to lay on the beach afterwards to dry, side by side with Patroclus, their bodies baking on the sand, which stuck to their skin. They would have to run back into the ocean and rinse before they put their smocks back on.

This afternoon was perfect for swimming. They had spent the morning wrestling in the hot sun. Patroclus was getting rather good, though Achilles still knew all of his weaknesses. He could hold him off for longer, though, which was good. His chest was getting broader too. Sometimes, when Achilles knocked into Patroclus, he hardly moved now. Unless they were sweaty and slipping against each other, as they were this morning.

Then, both of them might as well be slicked with oil for an official fight.

“Let’s go down to the beach,” Achilles declared on this day and Patroclus had nodded along eagerly. They’d walked towards the beach leisurely, taking their time.

The wind whipped around them, howling something awful, but the skies were clear and the wind whisked the sweat from his skin, bringing the spray of the ocean even from a distance.

As they approached, Patroclus began to walk slower, until he stopped all together. It took Achilles a few paces to notice, and when he did, he turned and furrowed his brow.

“Patroclus! Come along!” he called, over the sound of the wind.

“I don’t know about this,” Patroclus called back, his brow furrowed. He wasn’t looking at Achilles, but at the choppy ocean behind his head.

The waves were white-tipped, frothing at the mouth.

Achilles frowned. “It’s alright, the waves are hardly coming onto the beach, we’ll just stay near the shoreline.” He shrugged and took a few more steps.

Suddenly, Patroclus had grabbed hold of his arm. “Achilles, please. Not today.”

That little line had appeared on Patroclus’ forehead.

“I’m hot.”

“I know. Let’s--go steal ice from the kitchens and sit in the olive grove. I’ll even let you distract the slaves this time. Just--not in the ocean. Not today.”

Achilles made a face, looking back at the waters.

“Achilles,” Patroclus said once more.

There was a long moment before Achilles sighed. “Fine. We can go to the kitchens.”

Patroclus smiled, and that smile was worth the mild disappointment that stung like a wasp and then was gone just as quickly. That smile a salve, like the aloe vera Patroclus smeared on his skin.

Later that evening, one of the foster boys went missing.

The next morning, a body was found on the beach, draped in a white sheet, and brought up past the dining hall. Everyone was quiet as they watched it go by.

“The current took him out,” one boy said, down the table from Achilles, “it happened to my cousin.” The boy shook his head.

Achilles’ eyes found Patroclus’ across the table. Patroclus held his gaze for a moment before dropping it down to his plate and taking a bite of his breakfast.

And though his mother was a sea nymph, Achilles had never felt safer than sitting across the table from Patroclus, his _therapon_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so!! 
> 
> i really wanted to try and explore--achilles' respect for patroclus as an...advisor? because that is one of his most important roles for achilles. it's a really interesting part of their relationship to me, and i'm a big sucker for like bad ass fight me person bending the knee for like the softest, most gentle human. 
> 
> anyway, i hope i did a good job showing their progression. of course it is only the beginning of this facet of their relationship, and achilles won't always listen to him lol, but i would love feedback on what y'all thought!


	4. Book Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all!
> 
> sorry this chapter wasn't up last weekend. i've been battling with some health issues, and then i had a good friend of mine pass away, so it was a whirl wind of funeral activities, which made it hard to get my creative juices going.
> 
> to make up for it, this chapter is pretty fluffy! the next one is some more relationship-building, and then we're off to chiron, woo! 
> 
> hope you enjoy!

 

The rest of the summer passed in a blur of more visits from distant relatives--all with young girls about their age, some a little younger. As the summer stretched on, so did the boys. Patroclus grew taller than Achilles, which Achilles found amusing, for as he stretched upwards, he did not stretch outwards. Achilles own chest broadened, so, while he grew, he felt himself becoming strong too. He walked proudly when these envoys visited and he delighted in the way that everyone’s eyes followed him--both men and women, boys and girls.

He enjoyed charming them, their laughs and smiles like coins. Of course, Patroclus liked none of this, but he grew used to Patroclus’ silent shadow on his heel. If he wasn’t there, Achilles felt strange--exposed almost. Patroclus was his tether, kept him from growing too cocky. For it only took one look from the other boy, a slight raise of his eyebrows--and Achilles would know he was going too far with something.

Without the other boy, he could never tell.

They fell into a comfortable routine. Always with their sparring in the mornings. No matter what, they woke and went down towards the ocean. Or, if was raining, they would sit inside one of the large, empty rooms of the palace and toss each other about until they were bruised from the marble floors. Achilles came to find that he quite liked the routine, especially as their days became more disrupted by political and host obligations.

Now that they were older, Achilles—and with him, Patroclus, for the boy went wherever the other did—was expect to attend certain proceedings. He always found these gratuitously boring. He cared little for politics. Even as his father chided him, saying that one day, he would be king and these responsibilities would be his.

“Yes, well, when I’m king—Patroclus will still be making all the decisions,” Achilles pointed out, a playful, cocky smile of his face, which turned into a laugh at Patroclus’ expression as he slid his eyes towards him. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly parted—hands up in defense, like he was getting ready to protect himself. Achilles reached up, still laughing, and pat the tangled mess of tight curls on top of the other boy’s head.

Peleus just chuckled a little and shook his head. “However true that may be, you must still pay attention. Who knows—perhaps there will come a day where you and Patroclus make decisions the other will not agree with.”

“Impossible,” Achilles said confidently.

“It was not so long ago,” Peleus reminded him, “that you refused to listen to anyone, even your _therapon_.”

“Well, I’ve grown up.” Achilles lifted his chin.

Peleus smiled softly. “I dare say you have.”

When they left Peleus’ room that day, Patroclus looked worriedly at Achilles.

“You didn’t really mean that, did you?”

“What? That you will basically be ruling? Of course I did. I’m going to be leading our armies into battle. Not sitting around a throne room.”

“Well, I don’t want to be left behind at the _palace_. I don’t want to rule _either_ ,” Patroclus whined at him.

“Unfortunate for you, seeing as I will be king, and you will have to listen to what I say,” Achilles told him haughtily.

“I’ll just sabotage you then,” Patroclus bit back.

“You wouldn’t,” Achilles replied, though the confidence slipped a bit.

There was a long pause where Patroclus looked at him and Achilles couldn’t read the expression on his face. Which was strange, because Achilles had become very good at reading Patroclus’ expressions. He could tell from just a look if Patroclus didn’t approve of something he did. He could tell if he was uncomfortable with a situation and would swoop in to save him. He could tell when he found something amusing but was doing his best to suppress it.

This was an expression he couldn’t read. There was almost an anger there, a frustration. Though, Achilles had no idea why.

“No,” Patroclus finally said, letting out a little sigh and the expression melted away into one of fondness, his eyebrows relaxed and gentle, his smile back. “I wouldn’t.”

X X X X

Towards the end of the fall after Achilles and Patroclus had both turned fifteen, they took a trip, along with Achilles’ father and a few others from the household to see Peleus’ friends, who lived in the north. The palace was not as grand as their own, for the man was not a king, simply a hero from another generation, who had been gifted his land and a small principality to rule. The man was old, like Peleus. He had a wife and three children.

There was the girl, who was a few years older than them. Her name was Arachne and she was uninterested in speaking to anyone but Achilles. Whenever he came into the room, she got starry-eyed and turned from a girl who kept her nose in the air to one who giggled and blushed whenever Achilles complimented her.

He liked her very much for this, because he found it funny and it stroked his ego.

The middle child was a boy their age. His name was Hierophon. He was training to be a solider and thought himself the next great hero. Achilles found him maddeningly annoying. He walked around the palace like it was _his_ and barely paid Achilles any mind at all. Several times he had felt more than a little slighted by the other boy and it was only a look from Patroclus that kept him from challenging him.

Well, a look from Patroclus and the knowledge that his mother had forbade him from fighting in front of anyone (though, he had broken that rule with Patroclus. The only thing that must stay his mother’s hand was the pledge the boy had taken to Achilles.)

The other was a boy, but he was young, no more than five—and Achilles had no time for him. Though, Patroclus did like to play with him. Achilles often found Patroclus with the little boy on his lap, telling his stories. That little boy looked at Patroclus like nothing he had ever seen before. And, perhaps he hadn’t—

For in the north there were not many people with Patroclus fine, dark skin. At least, not in a position of power. Such things were more common in the south, where people had migrated from Africa and across the Aegean Sea. Achilles never thought deeply on this matter—Patroclus was Patroclus and his dark skin, which glistened like shined wood when he sweat or came from the ocean was—beautiful.

Anyway, life at this palace in the north was not so different from home. Achilles and Patroclus woke early and made their way down to the grove at the far corner of the large property every morning, where they would spar. Though, Patroclus whined that they were not home, and therefore deserved a break.

“Heroes don’t take breaks,” Achilles would tell him as he skipped ahead during those early morning jaunts. This would effectively silence Patroclus, because Achilles knew, despite all his obfuscating, that Patroclus wanted to be a hero—just like Achilles.

Sometimes, Hierophon would attempt to accompany them.

One morning, in which Achilles had slept in just slightly, he caught the boy cornering Patroclus in the hallway outside their rooms. (Achilles and Patroclus got their own rooms in the large house, though several nights Achilles bullied Patroclus into his bed anyway.) He frowned as he came across them.

“What is going on here?” Achilles said, coming up behind Hierophon.

The dark-haired boy scowled in Achilles’ direction, but it was Patroclus who spoke, an easy smile on his lips.

“I was just explaining to Hierophon why it is he cannot come with us to spar.” He gave Hierophon a polite, regretful smile.

“Did you tell him it is because my mother forbade it?” Achilles asked.

“Yes, Achilles,” Patroclus replied.

“I could spar with you, though, couldn’t I?” Hierophon interjected, not even looking at Achilles. He was smiling at Patroclus, who looked torn between startled and flattered at the suggestion.

Patroclus’ gaze slipped towards Achilles, as if looking for approval. Achilles was not going to give it to him. He felt a flare of possession burst inside of him. No one else was going to spar with Patroclus besides Achilles. So, he opted to just ignore the interjection.

“Did you tell him that my mother is a goddess?” he pressed.

Patroclus expression melted into a familiar, fond look, his dark eyes soft, brow relaxed and gentle. “Yes, Achilles. I told him.”

“Isn’t she just a sea nymph?” Hierophon interjected. “That’s hardly a goddess.”

Achilles laughed—more at the startled expression on Patroclus’ face than at Hierophon’s comment, though, he appreciated how red in the face Hierophon grew.

“She’s more goddess than you,” Achilles said lightly. Though, his voice grew hard as he spoke again. “And do not insult my mother again. For then you will see me fight, but you will not live to tell the tale.”

Hierophon blinked at that but he didn’t say anything else.

Achilles grabbed Patroclus roughly by the arm and pulled him away. The boy stumbled after Achilles, but he caught the sympathetic smile that he tossed over his shoulder at Hierophon. That smile made something hot and wild burst in Achilles’ stomach. He couldn’t pinpoint it but he knew that he didn’t want Patroclus looking at Hierophon like that anymore.

X X X X

Later that day, Achilles could not find Patroclus anywhere. He had spent most of his morning dodging advances from Arachne, who while beautiful, was also rather stupid. Her bumbling attempts at flirtation just annoyed and embarrassed Achilles. She was too easy, he found her obsession with him merely stroked his ego, but he did not want to indulge her any further. He simply had no interest in her.

It made the morning particularly drag, and he spent much of it wondering where Patroclus was.

Eventually, he managed to untangle himself from her and slipped away, on the hunt immediately for his friend. It took him an hour or so to find him and when he did, he almost wished he hadn’t.

Patroclus was lounging in a symposia room on a klinai. Achilles had only found him because he’d heard his laughter from down the hall. There on another klinai, his head turned towards Patroclus, was Hierophon, smiling proud as a peacock.

When Patroclus’ head fell forwards again from where it had been tossed back in laughter, he smiled brightly, eyes lighting up at the figure of Achilles in the doorway.

“Achilles!” he chirped happily. “Would you like a fig? They’re surprisingly delicious for so far north.” He held out his hand, wiggling the fruit from his fingers.

That burn in Achilles chest was hot but he moved stiffly to sit on the klinai across from Patroclus, annoyed that the one closest to him was occupied by Hierophon.

“Catch,” Patroclus said, his eyes going soft as he tossed the fig towards Achilles.

He caught it and found some of that fire quieted somewhat. It only took another glance at Hierophon—as he spoke—to find the annoyance flare back.

“That was a good throw,” Hierophon complimented Patroclus. He had not glanced at Achilles since he entered the room.

Perhaps that was why Achilles was annoyed. He was not used to being ignored. He was used to being the one at the center of attention. That was what it was, he decided. This boy was purposefully ignoring him. Because he was jealous of Achilles’ superior skill. It had nothing to do with the way he looked at Patroclus—impressed and in awe.

In Achilles’ not-so-humble opinion, that was how everyone should look at Patroclus. He deserved to be looked at like something inspiring, because he was. Whenever they wrestled, or spared with blunt swords, Achilles always felt a thrill. It made his blood sing. Especially as the other boy grew and became better. Whenever Patroclus gave Achilles a bruise—from a fist from a smack with a sword—he wore it proudly. He thought Patroclus was the best fighter out of any of the foster boys. He was more agile than any of them. Even as his limbs grew long, he was rarely clumsy. He used it to his advantage, more than anything. Taller and thinner—if he turned side-facing, he was near impossible to hit, as swift as a deer.

People should admire Patroclus. So, the burning in Achilles’ gut came from the fact that he seemed invisible. For, as soon as Hierophon complimented Patroclus—Patroclus wasn’t looking at Achilles anymore. His head ducked and Achilles knew he was blushing.

“Uhm, thank you,” Patroclus said, and glanced at Hierophon from underneath his lashes, looking shy and sweet.

Achilles watched the interaction with his stomach boiling.

“You’re very welcome,” Hierophon replied, staring at Patroclus so intently that the other boy’s gaze dropped again and he fiddled with the remaining fig in his hand.

There was a silence that stretched and stretched.

“Patroclus,” Achilles barked, after a few moments.

Patroclus’ head snapped up, startled, and he dropped the fig. His eyes were wide as he looked at Achilles, but Achilles didn’t care, because he was looking at him. As he should, as was only right.

“We should be going. We need to find my father before dinner.”

The confused look on Patroclus’ face was probably because there was no real reason to seek out Peleus, but Achilles refused to sit here for one more moment and be ignored.

“O-oh, all right, uhm—” He glanced towards Hierophon—who was smirking—“I’ll see you at dinner then, yes?”

“Yes,” Hierophon agreed, and his eyes slid towards Achilles for just a moment.

“Thank you for—showing me around the palace. I had a good time,” Patroclus told the boy as he stood from he seat and trotted towards where Achilles had already started moving towards the door of the room.

“Of course, you were excellent company. Please, don’t hesitate to seek me out again!” Hierophon called after them. Patroclus waved his hand in a wave, smiling, as they passed through the doorway.

Achilles’ jaw was clenched and they walked in silence for a few moments.

“Sooo,” Patroclus drawled, “what does the king need?”

“So, what were you doing with Hierophon?” Achilles asked, at the same time, their words overlapping. His jaw ticked again. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean nothing? King Peleus doesn’t need us?”

“No.”

“You lied?”

“What were you doing with Hierophon?” Achilles asked again.

Patroclus’ face pinched. “I don’t know. You were busy and I was bored. He asked if I wanted to see the house and I said yes. Didn’t know that was a crime.”

“You’ve already seen the house.”

“Not like this! That was the official tour, but he showed me the kitchens—which is where we stole those figs from. It was really amusing. He was acting quite a bit like you, charmed the slave wor—”

“Well, if he is so charming, why don’t you hang out with him?” Achilles cut him off, not wanting to hear anymore about how _alike_ they were.

“I _was_ ,” Patroclus replied, his face growing thunderous. “You made me leave.”

“I don’t like him.”

“Why not?” Patroclus scoffed.

“I just don’t. I don’t need a reason.”

“Well I do. He was funny and kind and showed me around.”

“I just don’t,” Achilles repeated.

“I’m not going to just not be friends with someone because you tell me not to without _reason_!” Patroclus snapped and started walking more quickly, his strides long.

“Patroclus!” Achilles barked and stretched his own steps to catch up. “You should. I don’t like him. So you should listen to me.”

“I don’t _have_ to listen to you!” Patroclus said, whirling around and glaring at Achilles. “You do realize that, don’t you? I don’t have to always listen to you. This—” he gestured between them “—is supposed to be an equal relationship. I am your _therapon_ , not your servant that you can order around. I love you, Achilles, and, more than that, I respect you, but not when you give me absolutely no reason at all not to be friends with someone. Especially someone who is actually _nice_ to me.”

Achilles blinked once. “I’m nice to you.”

“That’s rich. When was the last time you paid me a compliment, Achilles?”

Achilles brow crumpled at once and he cast his memory back. To him, it felt like he complimented Patroclus at every turn. He complimented his fighting style whenever Patroclus got a hit in or bested him (which happened occasionally). He complimented his philosophy skills. He complimented his level-headedness and his prowess for strategy. He complimented his long legs and the ripple of muscles in his back. His smile and the slope of his shoulders—

Except, all of these things, he said in his head. He complimented by _submitting_ when Patroclus bested him. He complimented him by arguing with him about philosophy. He complimented him by _listening_ to him.

Though, perhaps, he’d never said any of this out loud.

His own cheeks grew slightly flushed.

“Well, what does it matter if I’ve complimented you? I keep you around, don’t I?”

Patroclus scoffed and shook his head. “Fuck you, Achilles.” Patroclus turned on his heel and stormed off down the hall.

“Patroclus!” Achilles called after him. “Patroclus!”

But the other boy didn’t stop. When Achilles finally unstuck himself from his spot on the floor and jogged after his friend, Patroclus had already disappeared somewhere farther into the house.

 _Probably somewhere that_ Hierophon _showed him_ , Achilles thought to himself, mockingly. The thought didn’t help. If anything, it just curdled in his stomach and made him feel sick, and more than that—like an idiot. If they were home, he’d be able to find him, easy as anything. He knew all of Patroclus’ hiding spots. Especially since he had shown them to him. And, if they were home, he wouldn’t have to find him in the first place, because Patroclus always came back after a few hours, when he truly needed to be alone.

Now. Achilles wandered the halls fruitlessly until dinner. And when he arrived in the dining hall, Patroclus was not there. When his father asked, Achilles had covered for him, saying the other boy did not feel well.

“Ah, that is a shame,” Peleus said. “Do we need to fetch a doctor?”

“No,” Achilles said, “it is probably just homesickness.”

Peleus nodded, understandingly. “You should go to him tonight, he will want your comfort.”

Achilles doubted that. He did not go to Patroclus’ guest room, across the hall from his own. He didn’t even look to see if Patroclus was there. He simply went to his room and crawled under the covers, drifting off to sleep.

X X X X

The morning found Achilles sore. He had slept with his muscles clenched angrily. When he got up and stretched, he headed down to the sparing area, where the soldiers trained. He was only gathering equipment, for he would then head into the olive grove. Generally, Patroclus would accompany him, but Achilles had a feeling he would not be easily found.

He was wrong.

Achilles walked out of the storage room, armed with a blunt sword, and walked right into a cloud of dust—and the familiar yelp of Patroclus losing. He knew that sound better than he knew almost all others. Dropping his sword, Achilles dove into the tangle of bodies on instinct. It was easy to distinguish Patroclus from Hierophon. He grabbed the boy’s sweat-slicked hair and yanked his head back, while his other finger bent one of his fingers at an unnatural angle.

Startled, Hierophon let of Patroclus and stumbled backwards. Achilles was not done, though. He pounced on the other boy at once, and it took only five seconds for him to have him on the ground a knee in his back.

“Achilles!” he heard Patroclus shout and the next second, he had a hold of Achilles’ elbow and was tugging him backwards.

Achilles only let him do it, because he turned and looked at him in the next second, getting up in one fluid movement and lifting his hand to Patroclus’ chin. “Are you alright?”

Patroclus yanked his head back. “What? Of course I’m alright. We were just wrestling.” He gave Achilles a strange look—almost like he was…frightened of him. Frightened and confused.

“What in Hades?” Hierophon spit, getting up off the ground himself, covered in dust, looking both thunderous and awestruck.

Achilles saw Patroclus flinch at the curse.

He turned a little, so he was between them, facing the boy.

“Achilles,” Patroclus said again, softer this time.

Achilles barely heard him, he was focusing on Hierophon. His lip curled up in a sneer.

“No one touches him.”

“What is he, then? Your slave? You don’t get t—” Hierophon didn’t get to finish his sentence, his head snapped back with an audible _crack_ and blood gushed from his nose, spraying into the air.

Someone gasped, and it was only then that Achilles’ head snapped to the side and he realized that a small crowd of soldiers had gathered to watch the incident. He froze slightly and glanced over his shoulder at Patroclus, who was watching him wide-eyed.

“You dog!” Hierophon snarled then and spit blood onto the ground, over Achilles’ toes.

Before he could swing again, though, that anger flaring up inside of him again, Patroclus grabbed Achilles by the elbow. He looked down, offended at the grip but he did not yank away. Patroclus was glaring hard at him.

“Glad your bitch has such good control over you,” Hierophon snorted, glancing at Patroclus. His face twisted into something ugly then. “Look boys, it seems the great Achilles takes orders from a slave!”

A few chuckles spread through the crowd.

Patroclus’ face crumpled, and he dropped his hand from Achilles’ arm. This time, though, he stepped around the other boy and before Hierophon could react (though, Achilles knew exactly what was going to happen and did not stop it), he punched him so hard the boy would have a sizeable bruise not only around his nose, but one of his eyes, come dinner that night.

Everything was silent as the boy stumbled backwards, landing on his ass in the dirt.

Achilles stepped up close enough that his chest brushed Patroclus’ shoulder. “He’s _not_ my slave, he’s my _therapon_ , and a better man than you.”

He turned to Patroclus then, whose face he saw crumpling still, like someone had poured water on parchment. Grabbing the boy’s elbow, he led him back inside—quiet until they reached Achilles’ room. He steered Patroclus onto the bed and then took up the cloth and fresh bowl of water that had been left there for, assumedly, when Achilles came back from the sparing fields.

Sitting next to Patroclus, he put the bowl next to them and gestured for Patroclus’ fist.

It stayed cradled in Patroclus’ lap.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said, looking up at him, a little line appearing between his brows.

“Why did you do that?” Patroclus asked, his voice soft and quiet.

“Which part?” Achilles snorted, giving Patroclus an amused, fond sort of look. His gaze was soft, he could feel it himself, his insides molten and warm now, when before they were as hard as steel.

“The—why did you—stop it in the…first place?” Patroclus dropped his gaze.

“He was hurting you,” Achilles said at once. Unbothered by the immediacy, or his truth to the words.

There was a short silence.

“You—know we were just—wrestling, right?”

Achilles looked up then, because he heard the slight smile in Patroclus’ voice, though. He blinked once and felt his cheeks heat slightly. Which made him scowl.

“Yes.”

“And you—stopped it anyway?”

“Yes,” Achilles ground out, feeling annoyed—though, he couldn’t figure out why. It felt, almost, like Patroclus was making fun of him. No one ever made fun of him.

“Thank you,” Patroclus said then, and held out his hand to Achilles, wincing slightly as he spread his fingers out.

Achilles took his hand gently and dipped the cloth in the cool water before running it over the cracked skin on Patroclus’ knuckles.

“You’re welcome,” he said softly. “I know you can take care of yourself—”

“Do you?” Patroclus replied, eyebrows going up slightly in surprise.

“Of course,” Achilles said, and that really did confuse him. His ministrations on Patroclus’ knuckles stopped.

“Oh,” Patroclus breathed out and his gaze dropped.

“Why do you think I chose you as my _therapon_?”

There was another pause, longer than this time.

“Patroclus,” Achilles prompted.

“Because…you—pitied me.”

“Pitied you?” Achilles felt like he’d just been punched. He laughed, actually—which made Patroclus scowl and yank his hand from Achilles’ grip. Achilles reached forwards and grabbed Patroclus’ hand gently again. “I didn’t pity you, Patroclus. I wanted—to help you. I saw that fire in your eyes. You looked at all the boys with it. Me especially.”

Patroclus was watching him quietly.

“I could tell you were smart. Smarter than me.” He huffed a laugh. “And I was right too—about all of it. You are a brilliant fighter, Patroclus. And an even better friend,” he finished, his voice growing soft and thoughtful.

That feeling was back in his gut, only this time, it felt like it was spreading. Like he was the sun and warmth was pouring out of him. He wondered if Patroclus could feel it.

“So, not your slave?” Patroclus asked, voice hesitant.

Achilles looked up at that and lifted his fingers to grasp Patroclus’ chin, so that he couldn’t turn away. He did it so that Patroclus would look at him. He held his gaze steadily for a moment, looking into those dark, warm eyes, like honey.

“Not my slave,” he said, voice hard. He swallowed once, and his gaze softened. “I love you too, you know. More than anyone. You are my _therapon_.”

Patroclus smiled, Achilles felt the dip of his cheeks against the grooves of his fingers. That warm feeling flared bigger and brighter inside of his own chest and with his eyes still on Patroclus, he felt this tug towards him, like the Fates, weaving their tapestries together.

The door to Achilles room opened with a bang against the wall, causing Patroclus to startle and jump back. The bowl of water wobbled precariously on the edge of the bed and then tumbled to the floor with a clang and a splash.

King Peleus looked at it, and then back up at the boys.

“What is this I hear about you punching our host?” Peleus said, his expression more bemused than anything as he looked at the boys.

“I did,” Achilles replied haughtily.

“Why?” Peleus said, exasperated, like this conversation was one they’d had several times. (It was.)

“He called Patroclus a slave.”

Peleus blinked once, then turned to look at Patroclus. “Is this true, boy?” His voice was softer.

Patroclus nodded, those tears back in his eyes.

There was a moment of silence.

“I will get the servants to pack your things. We will be leaving soon,” Peleus announced and swept from the room.

Patroclus looked at Achilles, those tears still in his eyes.

“Thank you, for choosing me,” he murmured quietly, as Achilles reached for his hand to begin wrapping the cloth around it.

“Thank you, Patroclus,” Achilles murmured in return, and looking up at the boy. “For choosing me.”


	5. Book Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tada! new chapter, wooo! 
> 
> this one was also kind of ~~fillery and more fluff than anything. 
> 
> kudos if you can figure out what the theme of this group of scenes is!! 
> 
> off to chiron we go in the next chapter.
> 
> also--thank you everyone who is commenting on this fic and giving kudos and bookmarks. each one makes me smile and gives me all the motivation in the world to continue with this story.
> 
> **BRIEF WARNING (SPOILER ALERT): a dog dies in this chapter,, i'm sorry. i know that kind of thing bothers some people, but i never said this was a happy story!**

BOOK FOUR

X X X X

There was a commotion in the yard near the front of the palace one evening in early spring. Achilles did not often walk this way. What use did he have for the road leading away from the palace and into the town? There was nothing for him there. But, he was looking for Patroclus, who had disappeared sometime around lunch.

He did that on occasion. Slipped away like a fish downstream. Achilles didn’t ask what he did during this time. He understood, at least, as much as he could, that Patroclus got overwhelmed. That he needed to be alone and recharge. He assumed he found one of his hiding places and read or just relaxed. He didn’t really know.

Today, though, he went looking for him, because it had been a long time. Almost dinner. And sometimes, Patroclus lost track of time when he went off on his own. He always approached him gently—whether he found him in that servant’s hall where he’d found him the very first time, or up on the roof, or down by the ocean.

Today, he spotted the commotion while on the way to the stables and had a sinking feeling. There were a few boys crowded around, looking at something on the ground.

“Just leave it, the thing is good as dead!”

“Should just put it out of it’s misery.”

“Gentle Patroclus is going to try to save it, aren’t you?”

“Don’t you know killers can’t save anything?”

“Another bitch for Ach—Prince Achilles! H-hello!”

Achilles had pushed through the crowd, those jeers hurrying his steps. He turned and looked sharply at the boy who had spoken, who coward back a step, hiding half behind one of his friends. Achilles scowled but then turned back to the scene at his feet.

Patroclus had not noticed him yet. It seemed he did not notice any of the boys who were taunting him. He was bent over a dog, it was a scrawny mutt. One of the strays that lived outside the palace gates, begging for scraps at the kitchens. They were tolerated because they kept the rabbit and mouse population small and contained. Kept way less friendly creatures, like wolves or bears, in the winter when they got hungry enough to venture down from the mountain side.

But, they were not pets.

“What happened?” Achilles said, casting his gaze about.

The boys were stony silent.

“She was trampled by a horse,” Patroclus spoke and Achilles gaze snapped to him, eyes jumping up in surprise. He had thought Patroclus did not know he was standing there.

“Whose?”

Patroclus lifted a bloody hand and pointed at one of the boys, who was smirking behind his hand.

Achilles scowled in the boy’s direction. “Is this true?”

The boy dropped his hand and shrugged. He did not look remorseful. “The bitch got under the hooves.”

“You sought her out,” Patroclus snapped at him, his eyes hard.

Achilles looked at his therapon’s face, but Patroclus was not looking at him. He was staring stonily at the boy. Achilles felt rather bad for him, honestly. The boy was unaware of the wrath of Patroclus, which could be a terrible thing. Achilles knew that better than anyone.

“There is nothing more to see here. To dinner, all of you,” Achilles commanded at once.

There was a slight hesitation.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

The boys jolted into action then, scrambling to be the first to follow Achilles’ orders. It made him smirk in satisfaction as he crossed his arms over his chest.

The dog was whimpering awfully. Achilles had not heard it over the clamor of the boys, but now he could. It was a pathetic sound. It reminded Achilles of the deer on hunts that were not shot with their arrows straight through. They were cruel deaths, and he always made sure to slit their throats as fast as possible. There was nothing for suffering. A clean, quick death was preferable for all creatures in this world.

It was a sign of respect.

“You should kill her,” Achilles said, though his voice was not harsh.

Patroclus looked up at him, eyes wide. “No, no. She—she isn’t that bad. She can be saved.” His hands were bloody, as was his tunic.

Achilles’ frown deepened. “She’s in pain.”

“I know, I know, I—there must be something we can do. Take—take her to the physician.” Patroclus had looked back down that the dog, stroking over her yellow head which lay in his lap.

“The physician won’t treat a dog,” Achilles said, baffled.

“There must be something,” Patroclus repeated.

“Yes,” Achilles agreed, “we can kill it. Put it out of its misery.”

“No!” snapped Patroclus and held the dog closer, bending over it as if to shield it.

“Patroclus, it is time for dinner.”

“I’m not leaving her.”

Achilles frowned and hesitated. He did not know what to do. There was a part of him that was whispering that he should stay with Patroclus and the stupid dog. That part of him didn’t make any sense. For dogs were just that—dogs. Sure, they could be cute and funny. They were useful on hunts and for protection, but Achilles had never cared much for them outside of that. He preferred horses. They were far more useful and worth far more praise. Of course, he had also seen how Patroclus doted on the dogs. He liked to bring them scraps, and the dog kennel near the stables was another place that Patroclus hid inside.

But dogs died. They were easily trampled, easily broken. They lived short lives. It was best not to grow attached to them.

He knew that Patroclus would not listen to him if he said this. He would call him heartless, instead of what it actually was: practicality. Of course, Achilles did not like to see the animal suffer. That was why he wanted to put it out of its misery.

So, he stood there for a few moments longer and then shook his head. “I will not save your seat.”

Patroclus did not respond.

Achilles sighed and reached down to grasp Patroclus shoulder for a moment before turning away.

X X X X

Later, after dinner, Achilles wandered back to his and Patroclus’ bedroom with a plate for the boy, meats and cheeses and vegetables, as well as a few sweet dates and figs, and strawberries—perfectly ripe. He had plucked them himself from the kitchen stores.

When he heard whimpering coming from inside, he stopped and rolled his eyes, breathing out harshly before entering the room.

Sure enough, the dying mutt was laid out on some of their finest pillows, a sheet beneath them. Patroclus was dripping a towel of water onto the poor thing’s tongue. He had scrubbed the blood off of her, but that only made it more clear how distorted her lower half was, her belly was dissented and trembling, her back legs lifeless. Achilles’ face twisted at the sight and he placed the plate on the side table with a clatter.

Patroclus did not look up.

Achilles scowled and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’m not sleeping with that mangled mongrel in our room.”

“Then sleep somewhere else,” Patroclus dismissed.

“Patroclus!”

“No, Achilles, keep your voice down. She can sense your anger.” Patroclus laid his hand on the dog’s silky ear and rubbed it between his fingers.

Achilles breathed harshly through his nose. “She is not going to make it through the night. Her legs are broken, Patroclus.”

“I have been praying to Artemis.”

“Artemis is goddess of hunting dogs. Not stray mutts.”

“If you prayed too, perhaps she would listen. She’s your—your—”

“First cousin once removed,” Achilles told him with a roll of his eyes. “You know this.”

“Well, then, maybe she’ll help!”

“Artemis doesn’t care about me. I don’t care about Artemis.”

“Don’t say that or she certainly won’t help.”

“She’s not going to help _anyways_ , it’s a dog.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m just being honest. Patroclus, that dog is as good as dead.”

“Stop it!” Patroclus’ voice cracked then and Achilles blinked. He realized that Patroclus was crying. His features softened slightly, but his brow was still furrowed.

“Take it into the other room. Here I will help you.” Achilles walked forwards, grabbing the edge of the blanket Patroclus had laid the dog out on. He gave a little tug. The dog whimpered.

“Stop, you’re hurting her.”

“How did you get her here?”

Patroclus looked up, his face tear-stained and shining in the moonlight and light of the candles that he had lit. The look twisted inside of Achilles’ stomach and he glanced away momentarily.

“I carried her,” Patroclus said.

Achilles nodded once. “And did she whimper then?”

“She has not stopped,” Patroclus said, his voice wobbling.

“Then she may whimper a few minutes more.” He held the other boy’s gaze for a few moments. Eventually Patroclus sighed but scrambled up off the blanket and went to stand shoulder to shoulder with Achilles and together they pulled the dog into the washroom off the bedroom. The door between the two rooms was heavy, but Achilles knew the whimpering was bound to continue through the night.

He dropped his corner of the blanket when they made it all the way inside and he stood in a corner, watching as Patroclus moved about, fretting. He smoothed the sheet then readjusted the pillows. The dog whimpered low and panted throughout, but when Patroclus finally sat at her head again, she lifted it with all her strength and licked at his arm.

Patroclus put a hand on the dog’s ear, leaning over and whispering comforting platitudes. Achilles’ stomach twisted again and he slipped from the room, taking care to walk like a god—silent as a shadow across the floor.

The dog’s whimpering was incessant. Achilles could hear it through the door, even with a pillow over his head. Death hung heavy in the air. It made it difficult to sleep. Eventually, though, Achilles made peace with it and drifted off.

He woke and did not know what time it was, just that the moon hung heavy in the sky, lighting up the floor and shining in. Achilles did not know what had woken him, just that suddenly his eyes were open. Hypnos hardly hung about his head. Lifting his head, he glanced at Patroclus’ cot, which remained untouched.

His eyes drifted to the bathroom and there it came again, the sound that had pulled Achilles from sleep. A sob, quiet though it was. Obviously concealed. It was then that Achilles realized that the blanket of death was no longer draped over them.

With a sigh, he pushed himself up out of bed, robed, and went towards the washroom.

There was a single candle flickering low, its wax almost run out. From the shadows that danced around the room from the flame, it looked almost as if the dog was still breathing. Achilles knew better, however.

He stepped farther into the room. Patroclus seemed not to hear him. But, as always the other boy surprised him when he spoke after a moment.

“I want to bury her.” His voice was strong and sure.

Achilles pressed his lips together. What he wanted to say was: _no one buries dogs. Their souls have no where to go. She is gone_.

Instead, he looked at Patroclus’ face, etched with mourning, but no longer whimpering himself. His gaze was steely, imploring, and Achilles knew that he would do it whether or not Achilles accompanied him.

“I suppose I am already awake,” Achilles said evenly.

Patroclus’ lip twitched up and he nodded once.

Achilles helped the other boy remove the pillows from beneath the dog and then fold it in the sheet carefully, using one of Patroclus’ pins to close it up. It was carved of fine gold and shaped like laurel branch. Achilles thought that it was too good a trinket for a mutt, but he said nothing, simply watched as Patroclus thumbed it lovingly.

How quickly Patroclus falls in love, thought Achilles as he watched the boy hoist the dog up into his arms. His face was stony and there were tears back on his face.

Achilles led the way to the shed where the shovels were stored. Patroclus led the way to the grave site, which was at the base of one of their favourite olive trees, in the grove. Achilles pursed his lips and he wished to say: _I don’t think the gardener will be happy about this_.

“Make sure to bury her deep, where the animals will not get her,” he said instead.

Patroclus’ eyes were round and bright in the low light. Achilles could tell they were grateful as he laid the dog down and began to dig. For a moment, Achilles hestitated, but he did not like the picture of Patroclus working alone. He stepped up to the boy’s side and silently began shoveling as well.

By the time the grave was finished, it was deep and dark, and both boys were panting and sweaty.

Patroclus lifted the bundled mass and lowered her gently into the grave. Achilles reached out and held the back of his tunic, disturbed by the image of Patroclus tumbling into that grave as well. Eventually, he stood again and the boys covered the dog shovel by shovel, until the only remnants were the tilled earth over her body.

They stayed for a few moments longer. Achilles wondered if he should say something. Or—do something. He had the urge to reach out and touch Patroclus’ shoulder, his heart hanging absurdly heavy in his chest.

Instead, Patroclus looked up after a few moments of bowing his head and turned on his heel back towards the palace. Achilles put the shovels away and then jogged to catch up to him, walking into the room just moments after the other boy.

“Patroclus,” he called softly, moving further into the room. The other boy stopped, his bare feet quiet on the floor. He turned and looked over his shoulder at Achilles, his dark eyes questioning. Nodding his head towards the bed, Achilles moved towards it himself, turning the sheets down.

Patroclus hesitated and then moved towards the bed, shedding his tunic and crawling beneath the covers. He moved towards Achilles at once, laying his head on his shoulder. His skin was cold and Achilles reached an arm over to rub it up and down Patroclus’ own. He heard the boy sigh, felt his eyelashes flutter against the curve of Achilles’ shoulder.

“Good night, Patroclus,” Achilles said softly.

“Good night, Achilles.”

X X X X

A fortnight later, Achilles woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of wretched coughing. And then, vomiting. The sharp stench filled his nostrils at once and he blinked into the darkness, rolling over on his side to look at Patroclus, who was also rolled onto his side, a puddle beneath his cot. Achilles blinked once and then reached out. The cot was close enough that he could touch Patroclus’ forehead.

It was burning hot.

Starting, Achilles sat up from bed. His foot landed in a puddle of the sick, but he barely flinched.

“Patroclus,” he said, worriedly.

The boy groaned on the cot.

Achilles dashed out of the room, light-quick on his godly-feet. It did not take long for him to pass a servant, but he flew by them without stopping, even as they called his name after him. He did not stop until he came to the physician’s door, bursting into the room without warning.

“Physician!” he barked, loud enough to startled the old man’s bedfellow awake, who shrieked and covered herself.

“Prince Achilles!” she shouted in surprise.

“Physician!” Achilles barked again, ignoring her except to say: “wake him!”

The woman hurriedly shook the man’s shoulder as best she could with the sheet tucked up under her armpits to preserve her modesty. The man groaned and bat her away.

“Physician!”

The man jerked awake then, sitting up at once, staring bleary-eyed at the prince in his room, arms crossed over his chest.

“Wha—Prince Achilles! Are you sick?” the physician asked in surprise.

“No, Patroclus is.”

There was a brief pause, the physician’s forehead wrinkling, and then, with another jolt, as if remembering something, the old man threw off the covers. “Yes, of course, of course. Just a moment, let me find my—”

Achilles swept into the room, snatching the man’s robe from where it had been discarded on the floor and threw it at his face.

“Hurry,” he commanded, not even realizing he had put on his most princely airs to say it. There was a tinge of god-voice in the word which sent a visible shiver down the physician’s spine.

The old man moved too slowly for Achilles as they made their way back to Patroclus’ side. He sped ahead and looped backwards, like an impatient hound.

When he made his way to his room finally, it was Achilles who lit the lamps to brighten the room. He went to Patroclus’ side at once, but stopped in his tracks, feeling his heart fall into his stomach at the sight of the blood on the floor. He had thought it was just vomit, but the bright red spots mixed with grain black flecks, which looked like dirt, were unmistakably blood. Even Achilles, who had never been sick, knew that vomiting blood was never good.

The sensation stole his breath away for a moment and he stood there, trembling as the doctor lifted Patroclus’ eyelids, one and then the other.

After a moment, he managed to come to himself again and stormed towards the doctor, his face set and stony. “What is wrong with him?” he demanded.

 _Will he live_? he wanted to say, but he held his tongue, not willing to unleash that fear into the air. For that was what it was—this thing that made his hands shake at his side and his gut twist like snakes. He was afraid.

“I am not sure, young Prince. Was he alright before he went to sleep?”

“Yes, of course—I mean…” Achilles paused and blinked once, casting his memory back. “He complained of stomach ache.”

“Did he eat dinner?”

Achilles cast his memory back again, further this time. “He had a plate. I am not sure he touched it.” A line appeared between his eyes and he felt his stomach begin to churn faster and faster. He was starting to feel woozy himself. Sick with the terror clinging fast to him. He had never felt so afraid before.

 _He can’t die_ , Achilles thought. _I will die too_.

The physician rolled the boy laying prone on the cot onto his back. His lips were paler than Achilles had ever seen them. His dark skin ashy too. Achilles had never seen him look that way. Even when he complained of mild stomach aches. This was not a mild stomach, though.

He moved closer, watching as the doctor felt down the boy’s body. When he pressed down on Patroclus’ upper abdomen and the boy moan high and loud, full of pain, Achilles grabbed the physician’s shoulder and yanked him away.

“You’re hurting him,” he snarled.

“Sometimes, Prince Achilles, one must hurt a little in order to find what is wrong.”

Achilles stared into the man’s watery blue eyes for a moment. The doctor stared steadily back. With a scowl, Achilles shoved him forwards again.

“You should not be in the room, my prince.”

“I do not get ill,” Achilles reminded the physician with a scowl. “I will not leave him alone.”

“Forgive me,” the physician said and went back to work.

Achilles rounded to Patroclus’ head and knelt on his haunches. There were flecks of blood along Patroclus’ cheeks. Achilles used the corner of his tunic to wipe them away and then wipe at the boy’s forehead, which was burning hot. He felt as hot as Achilles’ blood ran. But Achilles had the ichor of the gods in his blood. It beat hot and fast through him naturally. Patroclus was mortal, though better than most, and his blood should not burn. It was as warm as sun baked rock on most days, unless it was particularly cool, or they had just come from the ocean. Then, his skin could be as cool as a breeze.

The examination went on for a long time. Each time Patroclus groaned, Achilles tensed and refrained just barely from snapping at the doctor. Instead, he just stroked at the boy’s brow and murmured to him.

“I’m here,” he cooed, his voice as gentle as it had ever been. Even as his heart pound fiercely in his chest and he wished he could pour his own blood into Patroclus, give him his impenetrable skin and soul. There was no evil that could get inside of him. There should be no evil that could get inside of Patroclus either. They were equals.

He knew, if it was Patroclus, that he would send a prayer to Apollo, but Achilles knew Apollo would not listen to him. So, instead, he just murmured quietly and vowed vengeance on whatever had caused this ill.

“I think he has inflammation of the stomach,” the physician announced after what felt like many moons and many suns.

Achilles head snapped up where it had been resting almost on Patroclus’ forehead.

“Will he live?”

“Yes, he will live.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, my prince. I will prescribe him myrrh extract and allow him to only eat the mildest of foods—chicken and greens, oats, for the next few days. He will be in pain, but he should heal. If his fever doesn’t not break by tomorrow evening, come and fetch me again.”

“I thought you said you were sure.”

“One can never be sure in matters of medicine, but I give him a very good chance, Prince Achilles. He is strong and healthy.”

Achilles watched the man wearily before nodding once.

“Good night, may Apollo bless you and him.” He bowed at the waist before turning and leaving them along again.

With a sigh, Achilles moved around to gather Patroclus in his arms.

“You better not vomit on my bed,” he told the boy as he hoisted him up and deposited him, as gently as he could, onto the soft down. Patroclus groaned against his bicep, but then relaxed again as soon as he was in the bed. Achilles crawled in behind him and sat against the head board. When a slave showed up a few minutes later with water and to clean the floor, he propped Patroclus against his own chest and helped dribble the water into the boy’s mouth.

The slaves watched curiously. He could feel their eyes on the two of them as they darted about like moths, cleaning up the sick on the floor and removing Patroclus’ cot to be changed out.

“That blanket,” he said, nodding his head to the one in one of the servant’s hands. It was soft gold and brown, jagged around the edges, well-worn and crudely made. It was one of the few belongings that Patroclus had brought with him. One dark night in those early days, Patroclus had told him that his mother had made it. “Make sure that is cleaned thoroughly and returned.”

The slave’s brow twitched in confusion, but she knew better than to question. She nodded and slipped out.

X X X X

Patroclus healed after another moon had passed through the sky, waking up and feeling aching in his bones. Achilles was restless, not having spent a moment away from Patroclus’ side the entire time that he was ill, but when the boy stood on shaky legs the second morning and asked if they were heading down to spar, Achilles had shaken his head.

“No, I thought we might go for a swim instead.”

The grateful, small smile that Patroclus had given him was worth the weight that had sat on his chest for the last day.

X X X X

A fortnight later, Patroclus was back to his proper strength, as if nothing had happened at all. Though, Achilles had noticed he avoided foods with too much spices in them. He said nothing but made personal note of it.

Their sparing had started slowly, but they were running their regular drills. Which would have thrilled Achilles, had it not been for the fact that something seemed to be distracting Patroclus. He did not seem to be sparring at the same level that he used to. Achilles bested him easily and quickly, much to his own growing frustration.

Patroclus, on the other hand, seemed to have accepted this fate, and rarely fought back with the same vigor as he once had.

It infuriated Achilles and he fought harder, like that would make Patroclus fight back twice as hard, as he once had. But, instead, Patroclus lazily blocked and parried, and was bested easily and quickly with each turn of the sword.

One day, in early summer, with the sun beating down on their backs, Achilles struck Patroclus in the back with his sword, causing the other boy to crumple to the ground. Achilles put his blunt sword beneath the boy’s throat, hard enough that if it was a real sword, it would have drawn blood.

“Stand up,” he growled.

Patroclus got wearily to his feet and assumed position again.

Achilles beat him in ten strikes.

Then seven.

Then five.

“Stand up,” he said.

“I’m tired,” Patroclus complained, pushing his sword away and rising to his feet.

“Tired?” Achilles spluttered in anger behind him. “Fight me!” he demanded, raising his sword again.

Patroclus pushed the blade away. “What’s the point?”

“For you to train,” Achilles growled, feeling baffled. “What’s gotten into you?”

“When did this come about me? These are your training sessions. I am tired and bruised. Fight the trees, if you wish for a scarecrow to batter.”

“These are our training sessions,” Achilles told him, still feeling baffled. Like he’d just been punched. He knew what that felt like too, Patroclus had punched him before. Clipped him right in the jaw. Though, then, it had been a pleasant kind of surprise.

“What is the point for me to train? You’re the glorious Achilles. No one will ever best you in battle. All I am learning is how to lose.”

Achilles face twisted and he felt his heart do that absurd drop thing again. It made him angry. He didn’t like the feeling it. It was as if Patroclus had cracked his ribs wide open. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? Without you, I’m nothing.”

“That’s not true!” Achilles bellowed at him.

“Why do you even _care_?”

“What will happen to me if you _die_ , Patroclus?” Achilles shout and he felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes, his throat tightening with the force of his cry.

Patroclus’ head snapped back slightly in surprise. There was a long, long pause. As if Patroclus was unsure what to say.

“I did not—think it would matter much if I died,” he murmured slightly, shrugging a shoulder.

Achilles scoffed and scowled, feeling truly bewildered now. “Do you not—” he stopped himself with a huff of a breath. “How many times do I have to tell you Patroclus. _You_ are more important to me than anyone.”

Patroclus glanced up from beneath his long lashes, his lips parted slightly, but he said nothing.  

“You must protect yourself,” Achilles implored.

Patroclus took a step closer, so that they were almost toe to toe. “And you would mourn me? If I died?” he murmured, tilting his head so the sun’s rays made his eyes flash gold.

“No,” Achilles said, the word no more than a breath, “I would die too.”

Patroclus blinked once and his lips parted again, so delicately that Achilles watched the skin peel back, like the seal of a letter.

The air around them began to grow thicker, Achilles could feel it in his blood.

Suddenly, he felt something sharp in his side, then a foot sliding between his own, tripping him as Patroclus got his arms around him and tossed his hip into Achilles’ gut. He let out a shout and they crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust, Patroclus on top of him, chuckling merrily, his hands propping himself up on either side of Achilles’ head.

“You do realize,” Achilles huffed from his place beneath Patroclus (one he was not keen on moving from, actually), “that the reason it seems you are not an excellent warrior is that you are fighting _me_?”

Patroclus blinked. “Oh.” His head tilted like a curious bird and then, he chuckled. Achilles could feel the movement through his own body. That thickness was back in the air. It made Achilles shudder with a feeling he couldn’t quite explain.

“That does make sense,” Patroclus conceded after a moment. “I’d never thought about that.”

“Hm?” Achilles said, blinking after a moment, looking up at Patroclus. He felt his cheeks flush, an odd sensation that made his brow furrow. He squirmed a bit beneath Patroclus, but that did not seem to help the blood pooling warm inside of his body.

“Get off,” he grumped at Patroclus, shoving at the boy’s chest.

Patroclus chuckled and rolled off, so that they were lying side by side. There was silence for another few moments. This time, though, it was peaceful. Gentle. Even if Achilles could feel his heart pounding his chest.

“You would protect me, wouldn’t you? If it ever came to battle?” Patroclus asked after a few moments, his voice soft.

“Of course,” Achilles replied and turned to prop himself up on one hand. “But, you do not need it. You are brilliant.”

Patroclus turned his head, a pleased smile curling in the corner of his lips. He tried to conceal it, but Achilles would know that smile anywhere. It was one of his favorite smiles. It was a special smile, just for Achilles. No matter how Patroclus attempted to hide it. That was what made it so sweet, like a battle won.

“Thank you,” he said, after a moment, with a little haughty wiggle of his head that made Achilles chuckle.

“You’re welcome.” His eyebrows raised. “Would you like to go again?”

“What, so I can kick your ass?”

Achilles scoffed.

“Gladly,” chirped Patroclus and he was first on his feet, grasping Achilles’ wrist and pulling him up after, so that they could assume their positions across from each other again, both grinning.


End file.
